


Best Man

by c_r_roberts



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Complete, F/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c_r_roberts/pseuds/c_r_roberts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Prim's getting married. Katniss, of course, is her maid of honor. And Peeta Mellark, the groom's annoyingly charming best friend and successful business partner, is the best man.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Today's the big day. It's taken a year of planning, a few too many conversations about flowers and seating charts, and a budget that's bigger than my salary, but it's finally here.

Prim's wedding day.

And as I stand in the large hotel room someone's labeled the _bridal suite_ , watching Prim receive the final touches of her makeup, done by a woman Prim's hired to do everyone's, and while listening to the others squeal in excitement with each stroke of a brow pencil, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about my 25 year-old sister getting married—especially to someone _my_ age. But that's neither here nor there, because at this point, all that's left to do is zip up Prim's dress before this thing happens. And I'm the maid of honor, so it's my job to plaster a smile on my face and be ecstatically happy for her.

And for the most part, I am. Thom's a good guy and I know he loves my sister. But who doesn't love Prim? I just worry she's gotten swept off her feet by Thom's relative good looks and the fact that he's loaded.

Legitimately, he's a millionaire. He's barely thirty, but he's made his money with something that had just started out as odd jobs around town to make a little extra cash during college. The summer before his junior year, Thom and his best friend began painting houses for friends' parents and such, and apparently they were good, and efficient, and reasonably priced. And word of mouth traveled quickly, and soon they weren't just painting houses for friends but for half the city. The way Thom tells it, they incorporated the small business when he was 23. And by the time he was 26, it had snowballed into a multimillion dollar company.

A multimillion dollar company with over 50 employees that he and his friend—his best man—still run together. A company that Thom says kept him so busy that he needed to join an online dating service in order to meet women because he didn't have time to do it the old fashioned way—like trolling bars and coffee shops. And that's how he met Prim three years ago, when she was all of 22 and right out of college and afraid of ending up alone, insisting she needed to date online because she _still_ didn't have a boyfriend.

And so here I am with my sister, the bride, getting ready in a lavish hotel suite upstairs from the even more lavish ballroom the reception will be held in later tonight. I'm surrounded by Thom's two sisters and his mother, Prim's two best friends Delly and Rue, and my mother, who's sitting quietly in the corner and is probably the only person here that feels more out of place than me.

I watch, sipping a glass of obligatory champagne casually as the makeup lady proclaims Prim's _all done_ and holds up a mirror for Prim to see herself. And of course I smile, my heart warming at how beautiful she looks, her blonde hair swept up elegantly, and her pale blue eyes even more stunning under false eyelashes and the perfect shade of eye shadow.

But I also furrow my brow when I catch her face fall as Delly exaggeratedly fawns over her, telling her Thom's just going _to die_ when he sees her.

Because clearly, Prim thinks something's wrong.

"Shit!"

She covers her mouth as she curses—because Prim is lady-like and rarely swears—and she forgets about studying her own reflection in the mirror, rushing over to the purse she used last night and digging through it frantically until she pulls out what she's looking for.

A small velvet box.

The wedding rings.

Prim immediately looks at me because she knows I know exactly what she's thinking.

_"Katniss, please don't let me forget to give these to Peeta,"_ she'd practically begged me as we left her room for the rehearsal last night and she'd slipped them into her purse.

_Oops._ Because although I'd agreed to remind her, I'd become easily distracted, at first with trying not to show my annoyance with the best man, who'd spent most of the night shamelessly flirting with the bridesmaids, and then also with the bottle of wine Rue and I had split at dinner—the only other bridesmaid who hadn't seemed so enamored with his supposed charm.

"Shit," I breathe, echoing my sister's curse.

I don't even let her form the question—the one on the tip of her tongue about to ask me to take them to him—before I chug the rest of the champagne in my glass, needing the liquid courage, and then cross the room to her holding out my hand.

She looks relieved that I'm not putting up a fight as she gives me the box.

Because on any other day, I probably would have.

"What room is he in?" I ask her, hoping I've disguised my displeasure with the tight smile I'm currently forcing.

Prim scrunches her face, in thought.

"I know Thom's in 1407, so he's got to be somewhere around there."

I'm about to ask Prim to text him or something to find out exactly where he is so I don't have to blindly stumble around the fourteenth floor of the hotel knocking on doors when Delly chimes in.

"He's in 1410."

Everyone in the room turns to stare at her, and I have to stop myself from wrinkling my nose, watching her lips turn up into a coy grin as she shrugs.

"Thanks," I say flatly. And then I turn for the door to complete my mission.

"I'll be right back."

And I intend to be. Because I will not let my impromptu visit with the best man take any longer than it absolutely has to.

It's not that I hate Peeta Mellark. It's just that I don't necessarily like him, either. He's arrogant, and _too_ charming, and when he smiles, it's like it's because he just knows that everyone loves him. And judging by the way Prim and Thom talk, he can't keep a serious girlfriend. Or rather, he doesn't want to. Although why should he? Women bow at his feet. Clearly, he's got half the bridesmaids wrapped around his finger.

Though it sounds like he's got Delly wrapped around more than just his _finger._

Plus, Peeta aggravates the hell out of me when we're all together. Usually I just want to ignore him and the annoyingly playful way he tries to engage me. But sometimes, it's impossible, because he's broad-shouldered and boyishly handsome with that effortlessly great smile of his. And unforgettable blue eyes.

They're the most aggravating part about him.

So when I reach room 1410, I brace myself before I knock.

And then impatiently wait twenty seconds for Peeta to answer the door. He's already dressed for the big day, at least for the most part, wearing well-fitting black slacks, a perfectly tailored white dress shirt and black suspenders, and a yet-to-be-tied bow tie hangs around his neck.

He looks intrigued by my presence.

"Hey, look, it's my favorite Everdeen. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Peeta's eyes flash their amusement. He waves me in as I sigh, walking past him into his room, taking in my surroundings.

His room is almost the size of the bridal suite, with a common living area and French doors that open to the separate bedroom. His tuxedo jacket is slung over the back of a dining chair, and there's a half-drunk beer bottle on the table next to it.

Peeta breezes past me, picking it up by its neck and swigging it casually.

"Want one?" he asks with a perk of an eyebrow after swallowing his sip. "They're only ten bucks out of the mini fridge."

I fold my arms across my chest.

"No thanks. Plenty of champagne upstairs."

Peeta shrugs, taking another sip of his beer before putting it back down on the glass top of the table and taking position in front of the full length mirror.

"No, but seriously. Why are you here? Don't you have maid of honor duties to attend to?" He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, focusing on his reflection as he begins to manipulate the fabric hanging around his neck.

"And that's exactly what I'm doing now," I tell him. "You, um, needed the rings."

"Oh, right," he says distractedly, trying to fold the satin around the loop he's already made.

I watch for a beat, slightly entertained at the level of concentration Peeta's currently using.

"Fuck," he mutters, frustrated when whatever he's trying to do doesn't work.

I smirk, placing the box with both wedding rings down on the table and catch his gaze in the mirror.

"You don't know how to tie a bow tie by now?"

Because you'd think, with his millions of dollars and all of the fancy parties he must attend, wearing a tuxedo would be second nature to Peeta Mellark.

He chuckles, his hands still fumbling at his neck.

"It's unfortunately on my list of the very few things I haven't mastered before turning 30."

Peeta watches me roll my eyes in the mirror before dropping his hands and giving up. Then he turns to me, looking all sorts of helpless.

"Will you help me?"

I scoff. He can't be serious.

"Don't you have a secretary or something that can do this for you? Or some 23 year-old hanging around who's more than eager to help?"

_I should have sent up Delly,_ I think, trying not to let Peeta see me swallow the lump in my throat when he just stares at me with an amused look, shaking his head slowly in response.

"Nope," he grins. "You're my last hope."

I sigh.

"I don't know how to do it either," I verbally backpedal. "I think I've tied maybe one in my entire life."

For Gale. Before…well, just _before._

Peeta looks at me sheepishly.

"I have these instructions pulled up on my phone you can use. I'm just terrible at following them."

We're staring at each other for another moment before he continues.

"Katniss. I've been trying to tie the damn thing for ten minutes now. Please?"

I really don't want to. I want to go back to Prim's room, watch her finish getting ready, and get this show on the road and send her down the aisle. And only worry about Peeta later, when I have to, like when we have to take photos and sit with each other at the reception.

But those eyes. They're actually pleading with me.

"Fine," I give in, exhaling exaggeratedly. "But only because you can't look like an idiot for my sister's wedding."

And I make Peeta show me the instructions he has on his phone, studying them for a moment before I step into him and tentatively begin fiddling with the satin around his neck.

I've never been this close to him before.

He smells good. Like crisp cologne and clean expensive soap.

I keep my eyes focused on my work, trying not to let his scent, or the sound of his light breathing, or the rise and fall of his chest that's practically pressed up against mine, affect me. And I'm doing a good enough job for a while, because I'm on step five of ten, according to the directions, and folding one end of the fabric around the first loop of the bow tie when it's Peeta's voice that finally distracts me.

"You look really pretty today."

Inwardly, I freeze, and outwardly I pause what I'm doing, but I still manage to look up at him skeptically.

"Watch it. I've got easy access to your windpipes right now."

I not only hear Peeta laugh, but I feel it too, as it vibrates from his chest and up through his throat. He shakes his head, dropping his very blue eyes only to drag them back up to eye level slowly, as if he's taking all of me in.

"What? You do. And I like your dress. Prim has good taste."

I glance down at myself instinctively, knowing that Prim does in fact have decent taste, and I'm grateful for it because it means I'm wearing a simple black chiffon dress with a sweetheart neckline that doesn't make me look terrible.

"She does," I allow myself to confirm, not acknowledging Peeta's compliment, unsure of what to make of it and even less sure of how to respond.

His eyebrows lift mischievously.

"And a hot sister."

Well, that ten seconds of sincerity had been nice while it lasted.

I make a face.

"Shut up and stay still," I tell him, unimpressed, and although he's grinning, he obliges, letting me resume my work.

Although I can't deny that he's flustered me, and I'm having trouble figuring out what my next step was supposed to be as I absently fiddle with the fabric.

"Is she nervous?" Peeta continues the conversation casually, like he tells girls they're hot all the time. _He probably does._ And I guess that makes it easier to answer him, along with the fact that I'm unable to look him in the eye as I concentrate, stuck staring at his… _neck_ instead.

"She's…Prim. She just wants everything to be perfect."

Peeta laughs lightly. "Well, I think because she's Prim, it's probably going to be perfect no matter what."

I know what he means. Prim leads a bit of a charmed life. Everyone loves her. And things just seem to go her way.

She and Peeta have a lot in common, actually.

I don't respond, instead focusing on the most intricate part of the process where I need to form the second loop. But once I get it successfully secured, only left with wrapping everything up with the rest of the fabric, I glance back up at Peeta, who I notice is watching me carefully.

"What about Thom? Did you keep him out late last night?"

Peeta shakes his head as I give the bow one final tug to straighten it, and then step back, relieved my work is done, and silently proud that it doesn't look half bad.

"No," he tells me, turning to look at himself in the mirror. "We called it an early night. I had…other things to do."

Peeta adjusts the bow slightly but he otherwise looks pretty pleased.

Although it's hard to tell if it's because of the bow tie or because of himself.

"Like Delly?" I accuse with a roll of my eyes, the sharpness of my voice surprising me.

Because it's not like I care. Even if it is pretty crass for the best man to sleep with the bridesmaids.

But Peeta furrows his brow, staring at me in the mirror.

"I meant work."

I can't tell if I believe him or not. I wouldn't put it past him to lie to me, but at the same time I know that he really does work insane hours too. But I shrug, nonchalantly, because it doesn't really matter anyway.

"Well then you should probably know that you might have a stalker."

Peeta turns back to me with a quizzical expression.

"What?"

I shake my head, waving him off.

"Never mind. You all set here then?"

He's still looking at me, his head cocked to one side curiously, and he picks up the cufflinks set on the table, adorning them to his shirt sleeves.

"Yeah, I think so," Peeta nods. "Thanks for helping me out. It looks good, right?"

It's more of a statement than a question, but it still forces me to consider him. The bow tie's fine. And combined with his expensive suit, his perfectly styled hair, piercing blue eyes and a smile that makes me falter, Peeta looks like he should be in a wedding magazine or something.

"It looks good," I confirm, hoping my thoughts don't betray my casual words.

"Good," he nods again, still smiling. "So, you ready for this?"

_Not really._

"Yes."

His knowing gaze cuts through me.

"Liar."

And I sigh, impatiently looking at the clock that hangs on the wall in the kitchenette, having already met my Peeta Mellark quota for the day before it's even really started.

"What's the matter, you got some place better to be or something?"

And there's that smile again.

I laugh, appreciating the sarcasm if not the smile.

"2:55. _Prim puts on wedding dress,_ " I say dryly, reciting from memory her highly-detailed itinerary.

Peeta finishes clasping the second pair of cufflinks and glances at the clock too, then looks back at me pointedly.

"Three minutes, you better hurry."

He doesn't have to tell me twice, and I make my way for the door with an awkward nod and no real goodbye, since I'll just be seeing him again in a couple of hours anyway.

"Katniss."

I'm at his door when he calls my name, and I stop and turn to see him pulling the tuxedo jacket off the chair, shrugging it on as he grins at me.

"Don't forget to save me a dance later."

I sigh and roll my eyes.

But I don't say no.

Instead, I give him a reminder of my own.

"Don't forget the rings."

Peeta grins.

"Deal."

***

Prim's reception is in the hotel's huge ballroom that holds the over two-hundred people here comfortably. I'm surrounded by cream peonies and pink roses, plush linens and gold chairs, pretty dresses and tuxedos, and mostly strange faces but some familiar ones too. The head table looks out on the crowd from the front of the room, and it's a happy atmosphere, obviously, but staring into the sea of faces as the band stops playing its soft dinner music fills me with dread.

I am not afraid of many things in life. I kill my own spiders. I've jumped off the high diving board. I'll go running alone in the dark. But without a doubt, my worst nightmare is standing up in front of a group of people and speaking to them. And having to give a three minute toast at my sister's wedding has me contemplating a trip to the bathroom so I can throw up my salad.

But I love my sister, and I really do like her and Thom as a couple. And Prim's already lost out on traditions like the father-daughter dance and having him walk her down the aisle, so really, the least I can do is give a maid of honor speech. So I take a few deep breaths as the band leader announces me, and I manage to keep my first course down as I begin.

Even with my trembling knees, a few awkward pauses, and a wrinkled note card filled with my shorthand for reference points, it doesn't go as horribly as it could have. At the end of the day, I'm really just talking to Prim. And telling her how much I love her. And how happy I am that she's found someone who loves her just as much as I do. That I know our dad is proud of her, and would have loved Thom, just like my mother and I love him. Just like we love _them._

And because she's Prim, she tears up, even though what I'm saying doesn't warrant tears. But just looking at her makes me tear up too, so I end up finishing by choking out a laugh and making a silly comment about keeping it short and sweet because I know I'm holding up dinner and that I'm basically just the opening act anyway. I thank everyone for coming, asking them to raise their glasses with me to the new couple. Then after, I hug Thom and a still wet-eyed Prim, and people are clapping and even smiling. And I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Because I spoke in front of 200 people and didn't die. And because it means my maid of honor obligations are officially over.

But relief isn't the only thing that overwhelms me. Because when I regroup and am able to refocus on the rest of the head table, I realize that Peeta's staring at me. Which shouldn't be such a big deal, especially because his toast is up next and I have to pass the microphone off to him, but the look in his eye is an intense one. He's even ignoring Thom, who's elbowing him and loudly joking for Peeta to take it easy on him to a chorus of chuckles.

And then I'm suddenly nervous all over again. I hold the microphone out to Peeta who stands to take it from me, dropping my gaze. We've been in the same routine all day so far, complete with sarcastic banter and light-hearted quips at the other's expense. Not that we've even acknowledged the other all that much anyway; I've been busy making sure Prim's got everything she needs—from someone to hold her bouquet to making sure her lip gloss is reapplied as needed, and Peeta's kept himself occupied by cracking jokes about Thom with Thom's brother and chatting up Delly.

So honestly, I'm not really sure why his eyes—that are usually so light and full of mischief—are darker now as they seriously examine me.

"Thanks," Peeta whispers as we trade places, and his hand ghosts over the small of my back, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine.

I remain silent, slipping into my seat that's next to Prim, finding it easier to stare into my lap than to look back up at him as the band leader introduces the best man.

Although I'm sure Peeta adjusts quickly back to gleaming eyes and white-teeth smiles, because of course he has the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand within seconds.

This is what Peeta does best. Thom says it's why he's the salesman of the company. He's great with words. And he can convince anyone of anything.

Not that this crowd needs much convincing of what he's saying. He tells us that he's glad that Prim could turn Thom into someone who cares about things other than work, joking even if it means he's stuck carrying the brunt of the work on date night now. And that he knew Thom was serious about Prim when he cancelled a late meeting with an important client simply because he wanted to take Prim to dinner that night to celebrate a promotion Prim received at work. Peeta explains that he's known Thom for over ten years now, and he's never seen him as genuinely happy as he's been these past few years with Prim. He wishes them a lifetime of that kind of happiness.

Basically, Peeta's absurdly charming, and he makes the guests laugh and sigh with his words.

Then after a small pause, he says that every man deserves to find someone they love as much as Thom loves Prim.

I'm caught off guard when his eyes land on me as he speaks. It's quick, and fleeting, but it happens. And I shift uncomfortably in my chair, quickly pulling my attention to my sister and Thom, instead of returning his gaze, until I'm distracted by the sight of Delly physically swooning in her seat. She even _bats her eyelashes_ in Peeta's direction.

Ugh. She's a terrible flirt.

In that she's actually _terrible_ at flirting. She's obvious and desperate and much too forward. I roll my eyes before I even know I'm doing it, then look around guiltily, hoping no one saw.

As a refocus my attention back to Peeta, needing the crowd to believe I'm not an immature brat, I know he caught me, because he perks an eyebrow and curls his lip just enough to frustrate me.

"Well, anyway, Peeta continues, nodding his head toward me, "Katniss probably said it best. You're all hungry, and I'm holding up dinner. And you're all here because you love Prim and Thom too. So you don't need me telling you how great they are."

He raises his glass, and the room follows suit.

"So, here's to my best friend, Thom, and the best girl he could possibly find for himself. Congratulations."

After the warm and rousing second toast, I watch Peeta take his seat, which is next to Delly's, who _of course_ immediately touches his arm, surely praising him, and then looks like she's on cloud nine when Peeta grins and says something that makes her laugh.

It's almost amusing to watch her desperation.

But it's also really fucking annoying.

And so I stop paying attention, happily distracted by a lovely five course meal, chatting with my sister about how perfect everything is—which isn't an exaggeration because it's been a beautiful day and the reception's gone off without a hitch—and then making better friends with Rue, who's to my right, and Thresh, a groomsman, who sits next to her.

I purposefully don't glance in Peeta's direction for the rest of the meal.

And I purposefully pretend I don't notice when he sends at least three looks in my direction.

But all of the disinterest in the world doesn't help when everyone stands to watch the bride and groom dance their first dance, because Peeta slides down into the spot where Prim should be, standing next to me, close enough that I can feel his presence even though I don't break my gaze from watching my little sister, officially a grown, married woman, dance with her husband.

They're dancing to a crappy song— _When a Man Loves a Woman,_ but at least there's a story behind it. Prim says Thom insisted on the song because it came on the car radio when he'd driven her home from their first date.

I also have to bite my lip watching Thom awkwardly attempt to lead Prim in a waltz that's disjointed and kind of terrible, but also sweet and endearing at the same time. If only because it's bad.

We stand silently for a few moments before he leans over.

"You'd never know they took dance lessons, right?" he whispers, and it's all I can do to suppress a snort of laughter.

"Be nice," I hiss back, unable to look at him.

"I _am_ being nice. If I wasn't being nice, I'd tell you Thom looks like a duck right now."

My eyes go wide, and I look around to see if anyone else has heard him. But as far as I can tell, everyone is still focused on the bride and groom and not the obnoxious, but correct, best man.

Peeta smirks.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

I shake my head at him, looking back to the dance floor, but I can't contain my smile, because _oh god,_ Thom really does look like a duck.

"Well, I still think it's sweet."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Peeta shove his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

"They really love each other, huh?"

It's true. It's the kind of love that's obvious just by looking at them. Like now, as we watch Thom step on Prim's dress, and then look horrified, although she just giggles at him.

It's not really a statement that needs a response.

Besides, the music swells as the band leads into the chorus, and it's too loud now to rudely whisper back and forth over the crooning of a vocalist who's trying too hard to sound like Michael Bolton anyway.

But once we reach an instrumental break, I have a weak moment of honesty after the minute of silence between us.

"Nice speech, by the way," I whisper.

Peeta gives me a funny look and a lopsided smile.

"Yeah, well, you're no _opening act_ yourself. You showed me up, actually."

I wave him off, not even bothering to respond. But he shakes his head once at me.

"No. Seriously. It was a great toast, Katniss."

Peeta's still got that funny look in his eyes. And nothing short of utter confusion crosses my face.

"Why are you being _nice_ to me?"

He chuckles lightly under his breath, reaching for my elbow, drawing me into him, and then closing the rest of the distance himself. His voice is low and his lips brush my ear.

"You really have no idea, do you?" The effect you can have."

I suck in a breath as all of it sends another shiver up my spine. And I think I hate him for it.

I need to get it together. I need to pay attention to the terrible dancing. I need to make my heart stop beating against my chest.

He pulls back from me, and I'm expecting a smirk or a laugh, or maybe a wink. But instead he gives me a smile that's almost…genuine. With just a touch of shyness.

Before I can respond—before I can do anything but stand there looking dumbfounded and ineloquent—the Michael Bolton impersonator's stopped singing, the song's over, and Thresh is clasping Peeta on the shoulder telling him the photographer wants their college friends on the dance floor to take a group photo.

And it's only then, right before Peeta follows Thresh away from me, that I get that wink I was expecting.

I'm actually glad for it, though. Because it's a much needed reminder that Peeta Mellark has _every_ idea of what effect _he_ can have.

***

I spend the next twenty minutes visiting with my mother, who sits at a table with my aunt Effie, her husband, who we all call by his last name—Boggs—and some of my mother's friends from work. I'm chatting with my mother and one of the other nurses she works with, a plump woman in her later thirties named Octavia, about just how beautiful Prim looks today and how elegant the reception is, when Octavia smiles sweetly at me and asks me when I think _I'll_ finally get married.

I pause, slightly stunned, and smile a tight, polite smile, because I can't believe she has the audacity to ask a question like that. First, because she's single herself, and older than me too.

But more importantly because Octavia had been invited to my wedding once upon a time. The wedding that...hadn't exactly happened. So even if it's an honest mistake and she doesn't mean it that way, it still feels like a personal attack.

My mother shoots me a sympathetic look, and saves me the need to answer, making a lighthearted comment that she thinks we have enough weddings in the family this year.

She laughs, and I laugh too, refusing to let the question drudge up old memories on such a good day. Especially since I'm completely and totally _over it._

But I still don't feel like being asked any more questions about my love life, and having already spent the obligatory few minutes visiting with guests of our family now, I glance around the room anxiously, relieved when I see my out.

"I think the bride might need me back," I lie, eying Prim and Thom who've returned to our table.

Thankfully, no one questions me and I escape relatively unscathed. Although, especially on days like today, it's hard not to imagine what my life would be like right now if the wedding _had_ happened.

I swing by the bar for a much needed drink, and I'm making my way back to the head table when I'm cut off by an urgently approaching Peeta Mellark. He stops me in my tracks, somewhere between tables 8 and 9, not caring about the surprise, or the irritation, I'm showing on my face. His eyes convey that none of that is important to him now because he's definitely in a hurry to get somewhere.

As I stare at him, bewildered, he steals my wine glass out of my hand—much to my displeasure—and sets it swiftly down on the table that's not even ours.

"Time to dance with me."

Then he grabs my wrist, apparently intending to drag me onto the dance floor if he has to.

"You know, I don't really think that's how it works," I tell him with an annoyed look as he manages to move us a few steps closer.

Although I could probably plant my feet right now and stop entirely if I wanted to.

Peeta exhales at my resistance, and he gives me a look that's somewhere between knowing and pleading, and then the eight piece band begins the first notes to _The Way You Look Tonight,_ and I sigh.

And before I know it, I'm sucked into dancing in Peeta Mellark's arms.

He guides me in small circles, surprisingly gentlemanly about the whole thing—holding my hand with our arms properly extended, and resting his other hand softly at the small of my back as I hang onto his shoulder. And we're carefully keeping plenty of space between ourselves. From a distance, it probably seems like a polite dance between the maid of honor and the best man.

But the current of electricity thrumming through me at Peeta's proximity tells me it's not that innocent.

Both of us are quiet at first, maybe trying to get used to falling into step with the other. Although we move surprisingly easily together.

But after a minute, I hear him humming along as the male vocalist—who's more Sinatra and less Bolton sounding now—sings about _nose-wrinkling laughs_ and _foolish hearts being touched,_ and I finally look up into his eyes. They're shining and crystal blue. He smiles, and I feel myself returning it with a small one of my own.

"Think we're showing up the bride and groom right now?" Peeta asks playfully, surely aware he doesn't have Thom's two left feet.

"I don't think anyone's paying attention to us," I tell him honestly.

He grins mischievously.

"So let's change that."

Peeta doesn't allow me to react, and instead in one fluid movement, he spins me out of his arms, into open space, and then pulling me back into him, holding me closer when I return. He caught me off guard, and I'm not exactly graceful, but I know we turn heads. And I can't help the laugh that escapes me.

Peeta chuckles too, but I feel his arms tense as he helps straighten me out, letting his fingertips linger on the curve of my shoulders for a few seconds before he moves them, reaching for my hand again.

"So why the sudden urge to dance?" I ask casually, tucking a strand of misplaced hair behind my ear as we resume our regular dancing form. Keeping the conversation going seems like a good idea—it's a way to distract myself from how good he still smells and how solid his arms feel around me.

Peeta tilts his head to the side.

"Pretty girl. Great song. Seemed like good enough reasons to me."

I roll my eyes and I hope he can't see the flush I feel in my cheeks.

He turns us again effortlessly, and my breath hitches at the conspiratorial look he gives me as he does.

"Also. I may need you to help me out again."

I narrow my eyes slightly, trying to figure him out. I want to deny him, and be able to tell Peeta that he's gotten enough favors out of me today. But he's looking at me with just the right amount of a twinkle in his eyes and a dangerously endearing smile that oozes sincerity, and even though I know better, it's practically impossible to say no to him.

"How so?" I ask cautiously, at least willing to consider what he wants from me.

I watch Peeta look over my shoulder, his eyes darting behind me and then back to me quickly. And he pulls me even closer to him so that our ribcages touch, pressing his hand into my back as he leans into me.

"You're really going to have to trust me." His warm breath hangs on the sensitive skin of my ear lobe, and his words unnerve me.

I pull my head back to look at him, starting to shake my head.

"Peeta, I'm not—"

And before I know what's happening, his lips are on mine, cutting off my sentence, and then swallowing my gasp. There isn't time—or room—to breathe. Or think.

All I know is that Peeta's kissing me.

And the only thing I can feel is heat.

I feel heat in my cheeks and in the tips of my ears because it's embarrassing, for Peeta to be kissing me on the dance floor at my sister's wedding.

Especially for no apparent reason.

But I also feel a different kind of heat because of the way he's kissing me. Like, really kissing me—dipping me over his knee with ease, his hand supporting the back of my head where his fingers curl into my hair, pressing his warm mouth against my lips with a force and insistence that makes my head swim and my stomach flip-flop.

And despite my surprise, and despite the audience, and despite myself, I'm kissing him back.

When he brings me right-side up again, and takes his lips off of mine, I see them upturn crookedly.

"Thanks," he breathes, and the husky lilt to his voice makes me swallow hard.

It takes a long moment, and Peeta's blond lashes flutter as he looks at me carefully as I slowly recover from the shock and confusion of it all. And just as I become unflustered enough to want to ask what the hell _that_ was for, I notice Peeta's gaze become fixated on something— _someone_ —positioned over my shoulder.

And I turn to see what he's looking at.

Delly.

Standing on the edge of the dance floor, her jaw practically on the floor, but her blue eyes look as though she's attempting to zap me into dust with them.

If my stomach was flip-flopping seconds ago, it completely drops now.

I turn back to Peeta, who's grinning at me.

"You were right. Total stalker."

And it's my turn for my jaw to drop.

I honestly feel like throwing up. And like the biggest idiot in the world.

"I thought you could help me ditch her. Although you might have to stay close by the rest of the night," he continues to explain, still grinning and apparently not noticing the stiffness of my stance and the way I recoil when he moves back into me.

He must really think I'm stupid then. Because Peeta obviously slept with Delly last night. It's the only explanation that adds up. From her knowledge of Peeta's room number, to her desperate flirting with him today, and certainly with the hurt and anger registering on her face now.

But Peeta, clearly having already gotten what he came for, wanted Delly to know he's moved on.

To the next girl on his never-ending list.

To me.

"You're disgusting," I spit at him, too aware that my words fall from my lips that still taste like him.

I feel heat again, but this time only out of sheer anger. And I shrug him off hastily as he reaches to stop me when I make a bee line off the dance floor, sure my face is beet red and not wanting to make any more of an ass of myself than Peeta Mellark already has.

I briefly catch a glimpse of Prim, standing to the side of the dance floor with Thom, who's gone completely bug-eyed, surely having caught our... _kiss_ , but I ignore her, heading for the lobby, needing to be alone.

Though I have no such luck, because I hear Peeta call my name softly behind me, before he follows behind me. I don't want to make a scene, so I curse inwardly and let him tail me, waiting until we've passed the bar and exit through the ballroom's swinging doors, where I push hard enough that I hope they smack him in the face.

"I'm not doing this now," I tell him curtly, once we're out of eye sight and ear shot.

He stands in front of me, keeping a good couple of feet between us, which is honestly the smartest thing he's done all night, looking at me with a sort of wild, upset expression.

"Not doing what? What is going on? Are you mad that I kissed you? I thought—"

I shake my head vigorously at him, not having any of it, not willing to hear any more of Peeta's stupid words.

"It's their wedding, and I refuse to fight at it. Which means, lucky for you, I also won't yell at the top of my lungs how much of an asshole you are."

_No, I'm going to tell him softly and calmly instead, for only him to hear me._

"So here's the plan, Peeta. We're going to go back in there and celebrate my sister and your best friend. And you're going to leave me the fuck alone for the rest of the night."

I stare coldly at him, watching his face contort. Am I wrong or does he actually look…wounded?

Well, good.

Peeta sighs, stepping tentatively toward me.

"Will you just calm down and let me explain?"

I narrow my eyes at him, trying not to explode. Because I'm so mad. I'm so mad at him, for treating me like a piece in some game. And for kissing me in front of everyone.

And for making me kiss him back.

So no, I won't let him explain. Because I know he'll just try and sell me again. And this time, I won't even give myself the option to buy it.

"No," I say plainly with a definitive shake of my head.

"And don't follow me," I tell him, shoving a finger in the direction of his chest before turning on my heel and leaving Peeta standing there, for once in his life, speechless.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Prim and Thom's house is old, beautiful, and perfectly renovated. It's in one of those neighborhoods that's full of similar houses—two hundred year old colonials that have been gutted to support an open floor plan and granite counter tops. It's where rich people who don't need 8,000 square foot mansions on two acres of land live. And it's just a few minutes outside of downtown—so while it's quaint, it's still bustling, with plenty of dog-walkers and runners on the sidewalks, and there are shops and restaurants around every corner.

I'd live here too if I could afford it.

So it wasn't a difficult decision to stay over and house sit for two weeks while Prim and Thom honeymoon in Bora Bora. And by the first Friday, I've set up in the guest room, figured out the cable channels, and even become one of those runners and dog walkers.

In fact, the dog is the only hard part. He's also the main reason they wanted me to stay over. Prim and Thom have a golden doodle. He's three years old, at least 70 pounds, and true to his name—Buttercup—he's the color of butter. And he hates me. We've been dancing around one another all week. At first I thought he was just on edge because he missed his owners. And then I figured it was because he had a stranger in his house. But after five days of me, you'd think he'd get used to the routine. And that he'd warm up to me after I've fed him and let him outside and even taken him for walks, despite the fact that he's big enough and misbehaved enough that it feels more like _he_ walks _me_.

So when I arrive home from work after an exhausting day of instructing seventh graders on the best way to filet a frog, and I've already gone for my run and showered in the guest bathroom, I guess I shouldn't be surprised when Buttercup goes nuts just because I have the audacity to go into Prim and Thom's bedroom. I'm only in it for a minute, looking for a light sweater in Prim's closet because the evening air has a chill to it I wasn't expecting, but Buttercup still howls like crazy from atop of their bed like I'm an infiltrator. I hiss and curse at him, grabbing the first linen cardigan I can find.

"I don't have to feed you, you know," I mutter, throwing the sweater on over my tank top and glaring at the stupid floppy, fluffy thing that's practically giving me the doggy evil eye as he follows me out of their bedroom. Although it's an empty threat, since a well-fed—and hopefully sleepy—golden doodle is less likely to bother my relaxing night in consisting of pizza, wine, and a movie. And after a day like today—which involved warning twelve year olds not to throw amphibian organs at one another—and weekends like last weekend—which involved a wedding that exhausted me physically and emotionally—I'm more than ready for a night on the couch in my sweats.

The dog forgets he hates me when the doorbell rings, though. He probably thinks he has bigger enemies to fight now—coming in the form of pizza delivery guys—as he takes off for the front door, urgently pacing in front of it when I arrive. I hiss for him to sit, and while miraculously, he does, I'm still hoping he doesn't jump up on the unlucky person selected to deliver my pizza as I swing open the door.

My eyes go wide with surprise, and then narrow almost instantly with suspicion, when the person standing on the front porch isn't someone bringing me dinner.

It's Peeta. He's dressed casually too—in an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of aviators. But as he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, I'm confused, because he actually looks pleased to see me.

"Oh. Hey. I didn't think anyone was here."

I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow skeptically, not making any effort to greet him. Although Buttercup behind me starts to whine, since he's apparently much more excited than I am to see our visitor.

"Why'd you knock then?"

Peeta shrugs. And then he grins.

He bends down to pet the dog who's run past me, eagerly nuzzling his head against Peeta's hand as he scratches his ears enthusiastically, greeting him with a soft "Hey there, buddy." Of course the dog loves Peeta. This should come as absolutely no surprise to me; but I'm still taken aback a little because Buttercup's affection clearly means that Peeta is a welcome guest in this house. And here I am having felt like an intruder all week.

"I just stopped by to borrow the hedge trimmer," Peeta explains, standing back up right as Buttercup sits dutifully at his feet. He fixes his gaze back on me with a hitch of his eyebrows. "Big plans this weekend. Lots of yard work."

I fold my arms across my chest, leaning against the open door frame. "And you don't have a… _hedge trimmer_ of your own." It's more of a disbelieving statement calling him out than an actual question, though it takes more than a little effort to say it with a straight face. Peeta smiles again, and I notice the way his eyes crinkle a little at the corners when he does. His ridiculously blue eyes that sparkle back at me in the setting sunlight.

"Nope."

I stare doubtfully at him for a beat, thinking it's awfully convenient of him to need to drop by on a Friday night for a mundane garden tool that might cost him a hundred bucks—chump change for a millionaire—at the hardware store. I flip the loose braid I'd quickly tied after my shower over my shoulder, giving him a disinterested shrug.

"Well, it's probably in the shed."

He's looking at me expectantly, and I know Peeta wants me to invite—or at least _let_ —him in. But I'm not budging, and I don't move from my position blocking the doorway. Finally, he looks down at his feet, laughing as if in disbelief, and shakes his head.

"Prim really wasn't kidding when she said it'd be best to let you cool off for a while, huh?"

This doesn't help his cause. I scowl fiercely at him. Because I don't like that Prim said anything at all to him. I hate the idea, actually.

But as Peeta's eyes go wide at my deepening frown, I realize I've succeeded in scaring him. And I know that this should be a good thing; that it should make him ignore me, and make him go away. So I'm not happy that it also makes me feel a pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Though I know why I feel it—because honestly, it's probably my fault Prim talked to Peeta in the first place. And knowing her, she'd most likely been the one to approach Peeta. She'd first tried to get me to talk about it—about Peeta kissing me—later on that night during the reception when I'd helped her with her dress in the bathroom, and I'd refused. I'd told her that it was her night, her wedding day. And that there was absolutely nothing that needed to be said about Peeta Mellark. She'd looked at me and laughed, but had left it alone, save for a good natured comment about it devastating Delly and the crush she had on Peeta. I'd quickly, probably too quickly in hindsight, quipped that Peeta was _all hers tonight_ , before changing subjects to whether she needed another drink in the same breath. So I guess I'd forced her hand and made her turn to Peeta as her source of information.

Though Peeta—and Prim, for that matter—are both sorely wrong if they think that all I need is a little time to forgive him. Even if he is the dog whisperer with Buttercup's still sitting silently at his feet—a feat I haven't accomplished all week. And even if he is still entirely too handsome for his own good, even without the tux. And especially even though I can't stop picturing his mouth, currently formed in a tentative, lopsided smile, pressed up against mine.

I feel my expression soften a little as I sigh. And I wrap Prim's sweater around me a little tighter, suddenly feeling self-conscious of my appearance, my hair still slightly damp, in just a pair of athletic shorts and flip flops, under Peeta's stare.

"Look, I don't know why you're really here, but I'm not—"

"Katniss, relax. I'm not going to kiss you again, okay?" Peeta cuts me off, his lips upturning further into a smirk as he speaks with a playful reassurance.

I sigh, this time feeling less guilty and more annoyed. Though I'm still thinking about his lips.

But before I have time respond, a beat up sedan with an Antonio's Pizza sign slapped on the hood pulls in behind Peeta's Range Rover. And Buttercup reacts like the Buttercup I've spent the last five days with—with loud barks and misguided overprotectiveness. Peeta reacts just as quickly though, grabbing the dog by his collar and catching him before he can run off toward the actual pizza delivery guy. And then he attempts to hand him off to me.

"Here, you grab the dog. I'll grab dinner." His smirk's turned into a full-fledged grin, most likely at the realization that I don't have much of a choice. And he's already reaching for his wallet as soon as I reluctantly take the dog from him, yanking the beast by his collar to get him successfully back inside the front door, inwardly cursing the pizza guy's terrible timing. "Don't bother," I tell him over my shoulder. "It's prepaid."

***

I'm pretty sure Peeta managed to pick up the tab anyway, judging by his smile when he saunters into the kitchen where I'm scooping Buttercup's dog food into his bowl. I turn at the sound of him, watching him hold the pizza in both hands, eying both me and the food.

"This seems like an awfully big pizza for one person."

I roll my eyes, placing Buttercup's food bowl down for him before addressing Peeta glibly. "I like leftovers."

Peeta laughs, moving next to me at the kitchen's island, where I've begun working on opening a bottle of red wine. He places the box on the marbled granite counter, and just the smell of the cheese and the sauce and the grease makes my stomach rumble. And although I'm hungry, and while I'm concentrating on screwing a corkscrew into this bottle right now, what's forefront in my mind is Peeta's presence. Because he's the closest he's been to me since…well, since he kissed me, and I hate it, but my skin prickles at only the inches between us.

"Let me guess," I sigh, as I wiggle the cork out of the bottle with a satisfactory pop. "You haven't eaten dinner yet."

I look to my left and see a pair of smiling eyes watching me. He shakes his head.

I sigh again, more exaggerated this time. "Would you like to stay for dinner?" It might be the most reluctant invitation I've ever given. Though this doesn't stop Peeta from grinning.

"I thought you'd never ask."

***

We eat outside on Prim and Thom's back patio. With the light breeze, it's a perfect June evening. The trees are lush and green, and Thom's meticulously cared for lawn is perfectly manicured while the flowers Prim's planted are in full bloom. It's not exactly the couch and whatever's playing on Showtime tonight, but I guess it could be worse.

Buttercup's joined us, and lays at Peeta's feet under the table, and I can't help but ask what gives with the dog liking him so much. Peeta shakes his head with an eyebrow raise as he reaches for the bottle of wine, pouring himself a healthy glass before topping mine off.

"You do realize that not everyone hates me like you hate me, right?"

I snort. "Are you comparing your entourage of women to golden doodles?" I take a piece of pizza from the box, placing it on my plate before swiping a pepperoni off of it and popping it into my mouth as I watch Peeta's amused reaction. He sips his wine then scratches his chin.

"I think you might be giving me more credit than I deserve. I wouldn't describe it as an entourage, per se." Then Peeta looks at me pointedly. "And to be fair, there's only one that follows me around like a puppy."

I chew carefully before swallowing. Delly. He means Delly.

This is getting dangerously close to off limits territory for me.

"So," I say, picking up my pizza. "How's work been this week without Thom?"

There. Can there really be anything safer than talking about paint? I'm patting myself on the back for the redirection of conversation when Peeta shrugs, his expression letting me know he knows exactly what I've just done.

"It's fine," he tells me simply. "As much as Thom likes to think otherwise, this company can run just fine without him from time to time." Despite my best efforts, a smile creeps across my face. Because that sounds like Thom to a tee.

"How was work for you?" He asks.

"We dissected frogs," I tell him nonchalantly, enjoying the twist of his jaw as Peeta tries to bite into the pizza and look unaffected.

"That's…pleasant," he responds with a hard swallow.

I shrug with a raise of my eyebrow, biting back my smile. "It's certainly more interesting than worms."

At this, Peeta genuinely laughs, wiping his hands on his paper napkin. "You know, for some reason, imagining you in a room full of thirteen year olds with scalpels and the smell of formaldehyde isn't actually that hard to do."

"I have no idea what you mean by that," I tell him, shaking my head as I take a healthy gulp of wine. I can't help but be slightly intrigued, because while my biology degree means I have no qualms about operating on dead things in order to study them, it can be hard to keep my patience when teaching whiney preteenagers. Although the assistant principal Mr. Abernathy, who insists on assigning me seventh graders, thinks it's hilarious to see me try.

"I _mean_ ," Peeta begins, looking at me with a dangerous glint in his eye from over his wine glass, "that you seem like the type of person who doesn't have a problem cutting something open just to rip its heart out."

My mouth drops.

It's exactly the reaction he's looking for from me, judging by his still-gleaming eyes. I purse my lips back together quickly, shrugging him off like his words have no effect. Because I have no interest in giving him what he wants. Then I narrow my eyes pointedly.

"Worms don't actually have hearts, you know."

He laughs again, his blue eyes and easy smile attempting to do things I don't want them to from across the patio table. _Ugh._ Why is he here right now? All I did was ask him if he wanted a stupid piece of pizza after he'd basically invited himself in. He's the one who helped himself to the glass of wine. So why does he insist on talking to me, or worse, _flirting_ with me?

Especially when I'm clearly upset with him. And why does my irritation seem to amuse him so much?

"I don't think I like how my analogy's been turned around on me," he tells me, still smiling.

I simply sip my wine, shrugging at him, because that's his problem. Yet for some reason, even calling him a heartless worm doesn't deter Peeta from continuing to talk to me.

"So what about this weekend? Any big plans?"

I don't know what makes me go in for the kill. Is it my annoyance that he's here at all in the first place? Is it my fear that he's flirting with me and, on a certain level, I'm allowing it? Is it my need to push him far, far away because I know nothing good will come of him getting any closer?

"I have a date."

It's not technically lying when I really am supposed to be meeting an attractive guy at a coffee shop tomorrow night, right? Never mind that the attractive guy is my teaching partner at the middle school and we're really just meeting to go over our final class project lesson plans. Though in my defense, Finnick _had_ winked and called it a date when we made the plans earlier this week.

If Peeta has any sort of reaction, it leaves his face too quickly to notice; replaced instead by a smirk as he leans in, resting his elbows on the table. "This is fun and all, but you know it's not a date right?"

I scowl, sure my face is red with anger. And maybe a little bit of a flush too. This is why I hate Peeta Mellark. He's always one step ahead, always so sure footed and able to turn the tables so smoothly. It's not fair. I don't want him to get under my skin. I don't want to try and scare him away with fake date plans. And I _really_ don't want to think he's cute, sitting across a patio table from me in a faded college t-shirt that stretches across his chest perfectly and his blond hair splayed casually across his forehead.

I want him to have never kissed me in the first place. And it'd be really great if the butterflies would go away too.

"Why are you even here? Because if it's really for Thom's hedge trimmer, it's in the shed," I cry out, flailing my arm in the direction of the back of the yard.

The amusement from Peeta's face falls at my outburst, and he makes an almost duck-like face as he blows air out of his mouth, studying me as I lean back into my seat, attempting to reign in my irritation.

"Katniss. Why do I bother you so much?" I think it's a serious question.

I fold my arms across my chest defensively.

"You don't."

Peeta raises an eyebrow. He's called me a liar before. And he's clearly doing it again.

I sigh. I honestly don't know why he bothers me. Usually, I'm perfectly indifferent to most people.

"Why are you so mad that I kissed you, then?"

I scrunch my nose, like it's the dumbest question in the world. He can't be serious. That much has to be obvious. So I answer it with one of my own.

"Why _did_ you kiss me?"

Peeta pushes his plate away from him, breaking my gaze to watch his hands perform the action.

"I don't know. Because I wanted to?" His voice is softer, and less confident.

"So you just go around kissing people whenever you feel like it?" I ask, incredulously, watching him. I don't understand this mentality whatsoever. And if that's really the case, just how many pairs of lips has Peeta assaulted anyway?

"Katniss," he sighs, easing back into the cushioned patio chair and locking his now serious blue gaze on my skeptical gray one. "All I can say is that I'm sorry if I upset you. I thought we were having fun. I thought you—well, I guess I thought something else." He exhales, and I watch the air pass his lips. "I was wrong. So I'm sorry."

I'm still considering him, and I allow his apology to sink in, thinking that he sounds sincere. But then again, I'm more than aware that Peeta can sound real and genuine at the drop of a hat—even when he's not. Besides, even if he's telling the truth, since when is just wanting to kiss someone a good enough reason to actually do it?

"I don't just kiss people for fun, Peeta." I tell him, taking a long sip of my wine, while attempting to convey my superiority by squaring my shoulders and narrowing my eyes. It'd be easier to do if he didn't look so good right now—casually reaching for his own glass of wine, comfortable and relaxed in the late evening glow of summer sun. So I look past him, unable to meet his gaze, instead taking in the hues of red and orange and wisps of white in the sky behind him. And I breathe in the breeze that comes with the warm scents of summer while attempting to ignore that tension that hangs in the air along with the smell of cut grass and fresh flowers. All while trying not to think too much about what the _something else_ Peeta thought was.

I hear Peeta chuckle, and he sips his drink before putting it back down on the table, leaning back into me and requiring my attention again.

"Why _do_ you kiss people then?" he asks. "Because I'd hate to be the guy who you _don't_ kiss for fun."

_Yeah, well, I hate being the girl who got kissed to make another girl go away._ It's what I'm thinking, but I can't bring myself to say it out loud. I don't know why. Maybe because I don't want Peeta to think I'm hurt or wounded by it, because I'm not. I'm just annoyed. At least, that's why I decide my pulse is still picking up steam. Annoyance. And not _something else._

"None of your business," I say curtly, jutting out my chin at him. Just like it's none of my business whether he slept with Delly. Or where he ended up after the reception that allowed him to roll into the next morning's brunch looking pleasantly disheveled.

Peeta tilts his head to the side slightly, not giving in. "So you get to know why I kissed you, but I don't get to know why you kissed me back?"

I freeze. It's the question I've been avoiding asking myself all week. And it just falls easily out of Peeta Mellark's mouth, as if it's no big deal. As if I'd just kissed him back _for fun_ too.

But that's the problem. I don't know why I kissed him back. I didn't have a good reason to, that's for sure. And without a good reason to, I shouldn't have done it.

Though he shouldn't have kissed me in the first place.

_We_ shouldn't have kissed.

And I decide he needs to know that.

"I think all that matters now is that it was obviously a mistake," I finally respond, shaking my head at him. I watch him blink, looking away for half a second before looking back at me, pushing his bottom lip out slightly as he fights a frown with a forced breath of a laugh and a short nod.

"Okay, Katniss. You're right. It was a mistake." As he speaks, there's a rawness to his voice that I don't recognize.

But now we've both agreed. It was a mistake.

It meant nothing.

"Right," I agree, nodding resolutely. And, without anything else to say, I reach for my half eaten slice of pizza, taking a bite.

"So what about this guy you're going out on a date with tomorrow? Are you going to kiss _him_?"

I almost choke. But I manage to chew, squinting my eyes at him as the life comes back to his expression, forever enjoying catching me off guard. I swallow. And I smile sweetly at him. "Probably."

Peeta laughs, tossing his napkin down on his empty plate. "You're the worst liar I've ever met. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, well, you're the best liar I've ever met," I mumble through a mouthful of cheese and sauce and dough. And it's not a compliment.

Although Peeta still looks at me appreciatively. And as if nothing I say tonight is going to discourage him. His words echo my thoughts. "You're really going to take a lot of convincing, aren't you?"

With the way he looks as he says it, like he's not denying his reputation, and that maybe—just maybe—he's slightly embarrassed by it, I can't help but crack a smile. It's good to know we both know it's true then—that I have a terrible poker face while his is _too_ good. Kind of like how I can barely manage to score homework plans with my teaching partner on a Saturday night, and Peeta's practically Panem's most eligible bachelor. And that I live in a modest one bedroom apartment across town, while Peeta's millionaire. Legitimately, all we have in common is Prim and Thom. We have no business hanging out with one another without them.

And yet, even though I have no idea how or why it happens, we manage to kill a Friday night together.

***

Peeta lingers outside with me as I finish eating. And as he swallows the rest of his wine, he jokingly asks what's for dessert. I shake my head at him, lifting up my glass and cheers-ing the air in demonstration before taking a large sip that polishes off my drink too.

He smiles lazily at me, gazing down at the dog still resting comfortably at his feet.

"C'mon. Let's go for a walk." As if on cue, Buttercup's gigantic, floppy ears perk up. Because Peeta's said the magic word. And it's rule number one of dog owning—and dog watching—that if you say the _w-a-l-k_ word, you have to follow through.

I sigh. He's trapped me. It's not like I can't agree now; I was going to have to take Buttercup on a walk at some point tonight anyway. It wasn't supposed to be a two person job though. But when we head out, it's actually kind of a relief to have Peeta with us, because he's capable of controlling the dog so that no one ends up being dragged between squirrels and fire hydrants.

We end up walking to an ice cream store less than a mile away. It's dusk by the time we get there, and dark by the time we head back, cones in hand. And I'm not entirely sure, but I think I might be enjoying myself. Although if anyone were to ever ask me, I'd deny this feeling completely.

I lick my scoop of butter pecan as we walk, and he skillfully juggles Buttercup between bites of rocky road. I try not to stare, focusing on the well-lit neighborhood streets instead.

"I'm surprised you don't have better things to do with your Friday nights," I chide him, after a few minutes of silence.

Peeta chuckles softly.

"I think there's a lot about me that would surprise you if you gave me the chance."

And even though I might not completely hate tonight, I laugh. Because giving Peeta Mellark a chance isn't something that's going to happen any time soon.

***

The coffee shop around the corner from my middle school is blissfully uncrowded for a Saturday night. And Finnick and I are spread out in a spacious booth with papers and computers occupying our table along with my tea, his espresso, and a huge chocolate chip cookie we agreed to split.

Finnick's great. He's unnecessarily good looking, although he doesn't know it. His green eyes hide behind wire rimmed glasses, and his coppery hair can be untamed at school sometimes, but tonight, it looks nice. And he's dressed casually, in a pair of jeans with an unzipped hooded sweat shirt over a plain t-shirt. I'm not much fancier, in just a pair of jeans and a simple top, because despite my best efforts to convince Peeta otherwise, this is definitely not a date.

We've worked together for two years now, since Finnick transferred from Panem's other middle school. He's a few years older, but we've bonded over bad break ups and trying to get sixth, seventh, and eighth graders to care about things like photosynthesis. We're pretty good friends, actually.

Though when he asks how my Friday night went, I don't mention Peeta. Nor does he know I made out with him on the dance floor at my sister's wedding. First of all, none of it seems relevant. And second of all, I've really only ever told Finnick about one guy in my life. And that was hard enough as it was. Mostly, I let him talk about the youth swim team he coaches and how excited he seems for summer to get here because it means swimming lessons and life guarding at the community pool. Teachers like us all have summer jobs—while Finnick's happens to be the pool, mine's working three days a week at the YMCA.

We're finishing up our final project's lesson plan—which now includes requiring our students to build or create something other than a poster or a power point for their year-in-review presentations—when Finnick attempts to casually ask about the only guy I've ever told him about. I'm slurping my now cold tea while he picks at the rest of the cookie as we broach the touchy subject of Gale.

"So. What's going on with the doomsday wedding?"

I roll my eyes at Finnick's characterization of the wedding I have to attend two weeks from now. Although I _have_ been dreading it for the last six weeks since receiving the invitation.

"Well, I'm still planning on going," I laugh, although admittedly, it comes out sounding kind of strangled.

Finnick sees right through my sad attempt at a brave face.

"You can't go alone. Are you out of you mind?"

I sigh, throwing up my hands. "I have to go, Finnick. If I don't…I just look…even more pathetic."

Finnick makes a face, his very white teeth biting into his bottom lip as his very green eyes stare at me with concern. "More pathetic than showing up at a wedding alone when your ex fiancé will be there with his new fiancé?" He shakes his head, completely unaccepting of this scenario. "Nope. You need a date. And you're taking me with you."

"What?" My eyes go wide at Finnick essentially demanding, rather than offering, to be my date. Because while we're friends, I didn't realize we were friends like _that._

He grins, with a lighthearted shrug. "I'm a great date. I hold doors. I dance. I even own a suit."

I laugh, and while I know that he's genuinely offering, there are so many other…factors to consider. And I don't want to put him in an awkward position. Because Darius's wedding is going to be nothing short of uncomfortable and stressful and awful. Not to mention embarrassing.

Finnick reads me like a book. "Katniss. Seriously. I'd expect you to do this for me if it were Johanna we were talking about." He raises an eyebrow playfully. "Besides, do you have any other options in your quest to make that stupid ex of yours insanely jealous?"

_Nope. No other options. At all._

I'm obviously grateful for his offer. More than grateful, actually—because looking at Finnick and his movie star face with his unassuming, good-natured smile, I also feel relieved, because with him on my arm, maybe I really won't feel like such a loser when I have to face Gale for the first time in over six months. But I'm not expecting to also feel a weird twist of guilt at the thought of taking Finnick as my date.

And ultimately, it's the misplaced guilt that makes me agree to his offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The support for this story has floored me. (It's a blast to write, by the way. ;) ) Thank you all for reading, and reviewing, and letting me know what you think. And if you'd like, come find me on tumblr. I'm @ c-r-roberts.


	3. Chapter 3

We're picking out nail colors when I tell Prim about Finnick.

"Wait, you're what?" she asks, looking at me like I'm suddenly a stranger to her. I glance quickly at her prying blue eyes before focusing on whether I should go with "Dead of Night" or "Black to Basics."

"I'm taking a date," I repeat with a shrug. "You've met Finnick. He was at that happy hour this spring?" Suddenly "After Dark" catches my eye and I pick it up, staring at it like it's significantly more interesting than a bottle of nail polish.

Prim inches closer to me, and I know she's still considering me carefully. "Finnick. Your teaching partner? He's...cute." I see her hand move to swipe an obnoxiously pink bottle off the display shelf.

I snort. "You sound so surprised." Though I'm not sure whether she's more stunned that my date's good looking, or that I have a date at all.

"No, it's not that," Prim sighs, impatiently clucking her tongue at me as I clutch the almost black nail color in my hand, having made my decision. She peruses the shelf for two seconds before throwing a pale beige color at me instead. "This will go better with your dress," she insists, before turning back to what she thinks is her real area of expertise. My love life.

"I honestly didn't know you were planning on taking a date is all."

As we're escorted to our stations by our nail technicians, I give in to her nail polish suggestion while simultaneously fighting her on our current topic of conversation.

"You know, I do manage to get a date from time to time." It almost feels wrong, pretending that Finnick is a real date. But sometimes, even though I know I shouldn't, I feel like I have to justify myself in front of my little sister. Because I didn't get married at 25. Because I didn't get married _at all._ And while, for the most part, I'm genuinely okay with that, sometimes I worry she thinks I'm still wounded. Even though I'm fine.

We slide into our adjoining seats, and I see her shake her head at me, the corners of her pink lips turning up slightly. "That's not what I meant and you know it. I just thought that if you were going to take someone with you that you'd have someone else in mind."

Immediately, my stomach feels like it's twisting into one big knot. _Oh god, he told them, didn't he?_ He told them about our pseudo date that he forced me into having with him. I haven't seen Prim since she and Thom got back this past Monday; I've been busy with grades and final projects and school ending on Wednesday. We'd set up this nail appointment and lunch to catch up—Prim still on extended vacation from work because of the wedding and honeymoon, and me on my second full day of summer.

But they—or, at least Thom—must have talked to Peeta by now. And he must have fed them false information.

I narrow my eyes at my sister. "Whatever he told you about last Friday, it's not true."

Prim perks an eyebrow, giving over her hands to her waiting manicurist. "What's not true?"

I let my manicurist take my hands in hers too, letting her distract my gaze as I watch her frown at my uneven filing. _Fuck._ Maybe I'd jumped to conclusions too soon.

"Nothing," I mutter under my breath.

"Wait. Have you seen him since the wedding?" The excitement in Prim's voice makes me sigh, still not bothering to look back her way as my nail beds are slathered with lotion and dunked into the small water bowl in front of me.

"Prim, I seriously don't know why you seem to be supporting this. He's…infuriating. And an idiot. And annoying. And—"

"—And good looking and charming and clearly interested in you," Prim laughs. "And so you're scared."

That's enough to get my attention. I glare at her. But clearly, I'm not that intimidating, because my sister just shrugs at me. "It's okay to like someone you know. It's been over a year."

My manicurist pulls one of my hands from the water to start attacking my cuticles with her tweezer-like contraption.

"I _do not_ like Peeta," I say through gritted teeth.

Why is she pushing this so hard? Why is she suddenly Peeta Mellark's biggest fan? She's the one who used to complain about his playboy reputation, and grumble about him finally settling down so she and Thom didn't have to wonder who was showing up to dinner with him. So what am I missing?

"You really don't think he's cute? Not even a little bit?"

"Prim, I don't care how cute he is," I finally snap, and the lady doing my nails has to tug at my hand to keep it still with an annoyed look. "So stop playing matchmaker or whatever you think it is you're doing."

"I just want to see you happy," she sighs, forever unphased by my annoyed outbursts.

I make a face. "And you think I'd be happy with _Peeta_?" The disgust in my voice makes Prim laugh.

"You seemed pretty happy with him at the wedding, you know. Even Thom said something about it."

"Well, you can tell Thom to stop playing matchmaker too, then."

"Katniss, chill out. We're not…trying to set you up or anything. We just thought…"

I stare at Prim, and her pretty rosy cheeks and sweet blue eyes, her blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears as she smiles back at me with a shrug. "We just thought you looked nice together. And we love both of you and..."

I don't let her finish.

"Prim," I say softly, but firmly. "I have enough to worry about right now without you and your husband's misguided attempts at finding the perfect double date."

Prim rolls her eyes at me. But she also backs off.

"Fine. Tell me more about Finnick then."

"He's just a friend," I answer quickly, surprising myself at how easily I've dismissed the idea of Finnick as an actual romantic prospect. "But when he offered to go with me to the wedding, I figured it wouldn't hurt to have someone with me."

The air shifts between us, any levity to our banter over a certain best friend deflating when she finally asks the question I _really_ don't want her to ask.

"Are you going to be okay? Seeing him?"

We should be talking about the fabulous meals she and Thom ate on their honeymoon, or how lavish their suite was, or how first class is absolutely the only way to fly, or anything else that we could possibly talk about besides _this._ I bite the inside of my cheek, turning my head in order to give her a very serious warning look.

"Prim. I'm fine."

"Katniss." Her frown tells me she thinks otherwise.

I sigh. "Like you said, it's been over a year."

"Can I ask you something?" Prim's voice is softer now.

I sigh again, shrugging just enough to acquiesce, but not enough to upset the woman who's painting me. And I also note that Prim's choice of "Blushing Bare Skin" is turning out pretty well, too.

"Do you ever wish…you and Gale…"

"No," I tell her definitively before she can even finish her question. It's true. I don't. Sometimes I find myself wondering where I'd be, what I'd be doing, or what it'd be like if we'd gone through with it and gotten married last year. But I never actually _wish_ we had.

Both of us get quiet for too long of a moment.

"Good," she finally responds, sounding satisfied. And as if she believes me. Then she smiles. "He's going to freak out seeing you with a date, right?"

I smirk, knowing Gale more than well enough to know that Prim's absolutely right. "Probably."

"Good." She says again, her smile growing wider.

And as our manicures finish up, our polish left to dry, I'm finally able to steer the conversation away from me. "So what are the newlyweds doing this weekend?"

"Oh. We're headed up to the lake house tonight, actually," she tells me nonchalantly.

Of course. I should have known they'd be jetsoning up to the lake house for a weekend. Thom spends half his summer there. To his credit, he could probably afford something even more lavish than the three bedroom cottage he owns two hours away on Coldwater Lake, but owning two homes, three cars, two jet skis and a boat is still a little much for someone who lives in a one bedroom apartment and came from nothing to comprehend.

"That sounds relaxing," I manage to answer, silently thinking they've just spent two weeks relaxing, and trying not to sound like I'm passing judgment. I get concerned because it feels like Prim sometimes forgets that she came from nothing too. Not that she's not grateful for what she has now, and not that she or Thom are obnoxious about their wealth, but as she lists off the things they plan on doing this weekend—refilling the pool, staining the dock, taking the boat to the other side of the lake—it's hard not to think she falls into this life a little too easily.

And her problem is wanting me to fall into that life a little too easily with her.

***

The next day, I learn that Finnick Odair in a suit is quite possibly the best looking thing I've ever seen. I'm sure I'm gawking as he greets me at my apartment door, standing there in a sharp black suit and tie, his hair tamed and his green eyes free to sparkle brightly because he's left his glasses at home. I mean, I've always known he was handsome, _too_ handsome, even in rumpled khakis and gym shoes. But at the same time, he's always been…Finnick. Finnick, who eats tuna fish sandwiches for lunch and doesn't care if he's 34 and too old for the chocolate milk he always buys to go with them. The same Finnick who makes really lame jokes that none of his students think are funny, although he laughs like they're hysterical anyway. So, while he certainly has his own brand of charm to him, I wasn't expecting someone who looks like a movie star to show up at my front door tonight.

He grins at me. "Ready to make them eat their hearts out?"

I shake my head at him, still taking him in. I'd honestly have been in awe if he'd just matched his belt to his shoes. "Why don't you wear suits to work? You should wear suits to work."

Finnick laughs lightly, raising an eyebrow. "You should see me in my birthday suit."

I roll my eyes but also fight a blush, not needing any extra gratuitous imagery of my incredibly attractive teaching partner.

"But I figured I should step it up tonight, if I was going to make anyone believe I'd be lucky enough to be your date." I roll my eyes again, but look down at myself subconsciously as I do, smoothing the skirt of my dress. I'm borrowing one of Prim's dresses tonight—a simple, but beautiful sleeveless lace sheath dress that hugs my curves, from where it skims across my collar bone to where it hits a few inches above my knees. I'd been worried the navy color wouldn't look as good on me and my olive skin tone and dark hair, because it's the kind of dress that makes Prim's blue eyes pop and offsets her pretty milky skin perfectly. But, she'd been right. It looks good on me too.

"You look stunning, Katniss."

I look back up into Finnick's eyes, which shine another shade of emerald as he smiles sheepishly at me. I smile sheepishly too. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?" I ask, only half kidding. I've been fighting with crawling back under my covers and hiding in bed until well past tomorrow morning all day.

But Finnick just shakes his head at me, gesturing with his hand in a way that suggests he's attempting to coax me out of my doorway. "Oh no. I am more than sure that I want to do this. So let's get moving, my little heartbreaker."

Things feel slightly more normal when we slide into Finnick's Prius—which I notice he's cleaned; the papers usually strewn about the backseat nowhere to be found—because at least we've done this before. We've driven places together. Not _together_ together, like we're pretending to be tonight, but there's some comfort level to knowing that Finnick's radio is perpetually stuck to Panem's classic rock station. And as we make the short drive over to the church, the Stones' _Gimme Shelter_ playing softly in the background, Finnick asks how we're all ending up at this wedding together anyway.

"We all went to high school together," I tell him, inadvertently tapping my nude-heeled foot to the beat, watching Finnick smile as he catches me doing it, because he doesn't know that I'm just teasing him when I call him _old_ for listening to the classics. "Well, Darius and I went to college together too, actually." Really, if Darius and I hadn't have gone to college together, and we hadn't shared many rides back and forth from campus, I'd never have agreed to attend his wedding. Because my ties to my high school days aren't exactly very strong.

Not any more, at least.

"And Darius is marrying who?"

I laugh. Because while Darius is a great guy, and I'm happy for him, he's also marrying a bit of a prima donna. But I guess that comes with the territory of being the police chief's son, with aspirations to run for mayor someday. A trophy wife. "I swear to god, her real name is Glimmer. That's all I know about her though, really."

Finnick raises an eyebrow. "This is going to be more fun than I originally thought, isn't it?"

***

My heart sinks when I see them. They sit three rows up and four seats over from us. I do my best not to stare. I really do. I try not to focus on the back of his neck, shaking off my ridiculous thoughts of it looking like he could use a trim because his hair's getting too long. Just like I try not to study her perfectly curled blonde hair and wonder just what she has that I don't. Other than curly blonde hair, of course.

Finnick must notice my preoccupation. And he also notices the direction of my stare. Maybe I should tense when he reaches for my hand, clenched against my knee, but I don't. I let him take it. And I let him hold it. Through watching the bride's dress that's so sparkly it—ugh— _glimmers_ as she walks down the aisle, through the self-written vows that make us both cringe, and then even after the ceremony ends and we're filing out of our pew. And though I make it look as though I don't see; I know Gale sees us. And it's only after he sees us that he takes Madge's hand in his own too.

"So. That's them, huh?" Finnick asks once we're back in his car.

"That's them," I nod, as we watch the crowd disperse, Gale and Madge included. Finnick lets his car idle for a moment after he turns it on.

"Well, he doesn't seem like anything special. Remind me again why you almost married him?"

I laugh despite myself, finally breaking my stare from my quintessentially tall, dark and handsome ex, and I look over to Finnick, who's grinning. "Yeah, I really dodged a bullet, right?"

"Listen to me. You're going to be fine. You have the upper hand." His tone's more serious now as he puts the car in reverse to back out of our spot.

"Finnick. He left me a month before our wedding for her. And now _they're_ getting married. Explain to me how I have the upper hand again?"

Finnick's still grinning. "Simple. You couldn't be happier for them. You couldn't care less about him. You wish them only the best. It'll drive him— _them_ —both nuts." Then he gives me a mischievous, yet somehow reassuring, eyebrow raise when he sees me considering this. "Don't worry. I'm your secret weapon."

He's more than a secret weapon. He's practically my savior at the reception. And as it turns out, it's a good thing I brought him. Because I need one.

Gale and Madge are already at the cocktail hour when we arrive. This is probably because it took five minutes for us to get out of the car once we pulled into the golf course where Darius's reception is being held. But Finnick wanted to be sure I was ready; and he wanted to warn me that if he does anything rash, like, _oh, pretend to be my long term boyfriend,_ I should just go with it. I don't have the heart to tell him that sounds like a terrible idea. And so, between the ceremony and the reception, I've picked up a boyfriend.

You'd think all of us would be more spacially aware of one another, especially in a crowded room of almost 150 other people. At least, I know I'd been planning on avoiding them. But as Finnick and I swipe our first champagne glasses from a server carrying them around on a tray, we bump right into them. Standing right behind us, almost as if they've sought us out.

What are you supposed to feel like, interacting with the man you spent eight years of your life with, a year after you called off your own wedding so he could start a legitimate relationship with one of your only friends? And by legitimate, I mean one that didn't require sneaking around behind my back.

Well, for starters, I feel like downing the glass of champagne in my hand, although I resign myself to just a healthy sip.

"Hi," Gale says uncomfortably, frowning as Finnick practically snuggles up against me, sliding his arm around my waist. It's actually surprising how easily I react to it, not tensing at his touch or our unusual proximity. Maybe it's because I'm distracted by Gale's fierce gray eyes. And his fiancé's pert nose and plump lips, which she's currently chewing on nervously.

"Hi," I manage to respond, wondering if my greeting sounds as strangled as it feels.

"Hi," Finnick chimes in too, and I brace myself for what's about to happen. "I'm Finnick." He smiles charmingly.

I've known Gale long enough to read him like a book. And I know exactly what he's thinking. _Who the fuck is Finnick?_

It gives me just enough confidence to explain to him exactly who Finnick is. "Oh, sorry," I apologize with a sheepish laugh. "This is Gale, and his fiancé Madge," I tell Finnick, who pretends like he doesn't know that already. "We…went to high school together with the groom." I turn back to Gale and Madge, and let their blank stares settle before continuing. "And this is Finnick. My boyfriend."

Madge's poker face is worse than her fiancé's, and I take a little bit of pleasure watching her stop chewing her bottom lip so that it can fall slightly as she tries not to gape. Maybe Finnick's idea wasn't such a terrible idea after all. This could be…fun.

"Nice to meet you," Gale says quickly, not bothering to offer Finnick a hand and instead refocusing his attention on me. And frowning. Again. "We're uh, at the same table tonight. I just thought you might like to know."

Of course. Almost two hundred people at this wedding and I'm going to have to sit next to my ex fucking fiancé. No wonder Gale and Madge hadn't tried their hand at avoidance. There's no point. Darius and Glimmer apparently want us to all be best friends before this night is over. And even though I want to scream, or worse—bolt—I do my best to shrug it off as if it's no big deal.

"Well, it's not like we know a ton of other people here." It's true. I don't recognize any other familiar faces from high school. But it's still pretty bad decorum to sit two exes at the same table.

Gale nods, glancing at Madge impatiently. "Right," he agrees, turning back to focus on us, almost unnoticeably lifting his eyebrow at me as Finnick sips his drink perfectly obliviously. I fight to keep my face straight, because Finnick's playing it so well. "But we figured we'd get the awkward hellos out of the way now."

"Why would they be awkward?" Finnick asks innocently.

"They're not," I agree, smiling at the couple who both fidget anxiously. It feels good to make them so out of their element, since clearly they were expecting to find me a little more wounded. Even if it's obviously a straight up lie—because things could not possibly get any more awkward right now.

And then I hear his voice from across the room.

It makes no sense. There's no reason for him, or his voice, to be here. Absolutely none. At first I think my ears are playing tricks on me, but then I hear him introduce himself to someone, and I know that it's really him. Unless this town is unfortunate enough to be home to not one, but two Peeta Mellarks.

I must tense up, because Finnick shoots me a quick look of concern. I feel him rub the small of my back gently, meant to be a simple gesture of reassurance, probably thinking it's just the stress of talking with Gale and Madge. Which I guess I'm going to have to let him go on believing, since there's no way I can explain who Peeta is to him now. Although it's strange; because for some reason I immediately become preoccupied with how I'm going to explain who _Finnick_ is to _Peeta_.

"So. You two know each other from teaching?" Gale's steel eyes glance between the two of us suspiciously, and I look up from my shoes and the floor as his question knocks me back into focus. I must have missed a chunk of conversation to be receiving that question, and I've got nothing to offer but an uncomfortable smile in response. But Finnick, thank god for Finnick.

Finnick nods. "We've been friends for a long time. But _this_ ," he says, snaking his arm back around my waist to draw me in closer to him as if to prove a point, "is new. Well, at least officially. I've been trying to get Katniss to notice me for over a year," he chuckles.

_Over a year._

I might actually love Finnick. And Gale, with all of the brooding, possessive self-entitlement his eyes can muster, looks at him with steam practically coming out of his ears. And it makes me momentarily forget about Peeta Mellark and his robust laughter I can hear in the background. I turn to Finnick and smile my sweetest smile before shooting my coldest gaze to Gale.

"Well, maybe not _quite_ that long. But close."

Then I return my attention to Finnick, who right now, honestly deserves all of it. "If you're thirsty, we should probably make our way to the bar now before they have us take our seats," I tell him. "I think it closes during dinner service."

Finnick's eyes go wide in mock horror at the idea of the bar shutting down, and then he smiles another quietly charming smile at Gale and Madge. "I think that's our cue. We'll see you at dinner?" The future Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne nod wordlessly, and I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding as I let Finnick whisk me away from them.

"How am I doing so far?" he whispers in my ear as we walk briskly toward the bar, his hand still around my waist. I catch his eyes, bright green with tempered amusement, and I know he knows he's doing just fine. But I smile at him gratefully anyway. I've never seen Finnick turn on the charm like this; his likability is palpable. And this is good. Because he's really going to need to be on his game if he's going to help me ward off not only Gale, but Peeta too.

As we move further away from Gale and Madge, it's an unfortunate reality that this means we're now closer to Peeta. And his…date. Peeta's brought a date. A willowy, beautiful date. And if he's noticed me by now, he's not showing any signs of it, chatting with a younger group of people he's circled with off to our right, sipping something on the rocks and introducing whoever the stunning brunette that's with him is.

Finnick catches the gaze of my direction, as well as the distraction on my face when I stare at him blankly after he asks me what I'd like to drink. "Oookay," he teases lightly, probably thinking I'm still in an ex-fiancé induced haze. "Let's get you something stiff, then."

But the last thing I need is alcohol.

I need an escape plan.

***

Our table of eight fills up quickly, as does the room, right after Finnick and I sit down. Two of Glimmer's friends from college join us first, introducing themselves as Marvel and Clove. Gale and Madge join us shortly after that, and Gale sits down right next to Finnick. I have to hide a smirk when Finnick shoots me a satisfied look. Though I don't have time to dwell on my new boyfriend sitting next to my ex, because I quickly become more concerned with the last couple seated at our table. And as I watch them approach, I have to wonder what the hell I ever did to Darius, because clearly, he hates me.

It's like I'm watching a train wreck—I can't look away. He's wearing a fitted gray suit with a white shirt and gray striped tie, smoothening it against his chest as they stop at our table. It looks good—better than good—against his blue eyes and a light tan. And the woman at his side is even more beautiful up close, with eyes greener than Finnick's, high cheek bones and a creamy pale complexion. The red dress she wears drapes her slim curves, and her smile's shy, but kind. I know it shouldn't be a competition, but I can't help but feel completely inadequate as my gaze flits to her.

The college friends seem to know Peeta. But other than a quick nod and a wave, he ignores them for now. Instead, he's looks directly at me.

"Hey Katniss." He's pulling his date's chair out for her as he says my name, greeting me casually. Like it's normal that we're at the same wedding, at the same table right now.

"Peeta," I say, just as coolly, working very hard not to squirm in my seat. For as indifferent as our attitudes are, the look between us is deliberate.

"You two know each other?" The words come from Gale's voice. I startle slightly, because I'm not expecting to hear from him, and look one seat down from Finnick. Gale's staring at Peeta with his signature cynical gaze.

Peeta's eyes study Gale momentarily and I watch his lips upturn into a confident grin. "Oh yeah. We go way back. This is Annie by the way," he tells the table as they take their seats. "My date."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Finnick raising an eyebrow at me before going in for the kill and extending his own hand without my prompting.

"Finnick. Boyfriend."

_Uh oh._

I don't know what I'm expecting to read on Peeta's face. Certainly not amusement. But that's what's there as he smiles back at Finnick, throwing the tiniest of looks my way before shaking Finnick's hand firmly across the table.

"Pleasure to meet you, Finnick."

"So, how does everyone know each other?" Marvel asks obliviously, looking out over the table. "We all went to college with the bride," he explains, gesturing to Clove as well as Peeta. Which is easy enough, though it's a terrible question for the rest of us. I frown, looking around the table.

Gale's the first to answer, after another awkward glance my way.

"Madge and I—and Katniss too, we all went to high school with Darius." I guess that's the appropriate way to answer the question, but it still irks me. But instead of twisting my face in irritation, I suck down a big gulp of ice water, just as Clove starts to coo.

"Ohhh, high school sweethearts then? How sweet."

It's not even a close call, or a just a bad swallow—nope, I officially choke. On the ice water, on Clove's words. And it's not pretty, because I begin to cough and my eyes water, and Finnick stares at me with wide-eyed concern, not only because I might need the Heimlich, but also because he must know that this _sucks._

And as I begin to regain my composure, out of the corner of my watery eye, I see Madge smile uneasily at Clove. "Well, not exactly. We, um, just started dating last year."

At least she has the decency to stare into her place setting as she answers.

The table's silent for a moment before I hear Peeta pipe up. "My best friend married Katniss's sister."

My eyes fly up to his direction. So do the rest of the table's. "A couple of weeks ago now," he continues, and the look he gives me is a little too innocent. "Lots of quality time that night, right, Katniss?"

I cough my answer, my throat still trying to recover. "Um, yeah. Sure."

"Oh! I heard it was beautiful," Peeta's date—Annie—exclaims, blushing when I look at her, confused. Why would she have heard anything about my sister's wedding? It's not exactly pick up line material. But she seems genuine, and sheepish that she's said anything at all.

I open my mouth to agree with her, but all I end up doing is smiling softly in her direction because Peeta beats me to it. "It was," he responds with a nod before shooting Finnick a knowing smile. "We uh, missed you at the wedding, Finnick."

It's such a loaded question in so many ways. Maybe the rest of the table doesn't know it, but I do. And Peeta's blue eyes express a combination of confusion and a challenge. I don't know what to say. And I'm seriously debating attempting to choke on my water again if only for the distraction. But, because Finnick is truly soaring as my doting date tonight, he comes to my rescue yet again.

"Yeah, it's a shame I had to miss it. My cousin got married that weekend too. So we had to divide and conquer."

Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief. And Peeta seems to accept Finnick's answer, although they've entered some sort of brief stare off that makes me think Peeta's not going to let anything go easily. Not that I should be surprised by that realization. That's kind of his thing.

"Well, you missed your girlfriend give a hell of toast," Peeta says quietly, before changing the subject to the topic of Clove and Marvel's wedding they recently have themselves. Clove's happy chatter about the mundane details of their wedding at least gives me a reprieve, even if I don't pay particular attention to her talking. Though I'm sucked right back in when Clove notices the ring on Madge's finger—which by the way, looks nothing like the ring I once wore—and unwittingly launches a conversation about Madge and Gale's upcoming nuptials.

Madge looks at me guiltily, but engages anyway, telling Clove that they're getting married in October and that it's going to be a small wedding all while Gale stares into the bread basket, taking far too long deciding on which roll to take.

Finnick squeezes the area above my knee under the table gently. I know he's just trying to help, but it makes me startle. And as I look up, hoping no one noticed me jump, I watch Peeta's eyes dart away from me as if he didn't want me to catch him staring.

Seriously. Could tonight get any more complicated?

Thankfully, dinner arrives shortly after that, which is enough to shut us all up. At least for a little while.

***

At my first opportunity, (which is when Finnick excuses himself for the bathroom around the same time Peeta and Annie get stopped by a different table of guests on their way back from the coffee station), I pull my phone out of my un-usefully small purse, sending a furious message to my sister. My fingers click quickly underneath the table, half-blindly, as I look around to see if there's anyone to notice me. I'm still blissfully alone.

Katniss [9:07 PM]: _Did you know that Peeta was going to be at this wedding?_

I wait impatiently for a response, praying Prim gets service at the lake house and smiling tightly at Clove and Marvel across the table while sipping my wine just for something to do. My phone buzzes seconds later.

Prim [9:08 PM]: _{wide-eyed emoji face} And Gale too?_

Well, at least she recognizes the awfulness of my situation, even if she's avoiding my question. And she can send me all the cute smiley faces she wants, it's not going to throw me off her scent.

Katniss [9:08 PM]: _Who's Annie?_

I hate myself for asking. But Prim responds too soon for me to retract my curiosity, because I see her answer just as I look down to my phone to type _"never mind."_

Prim [9:09 PM]: _As in Thom's assistant Annie?_

Katniss [9:09]: _IDK!_

_Oh god._ Did Peeta really bring someone who works for him as his date? Is he really _that_ guy? _IDK_ that either. And I might be afraid to find out. I preoccupy myself with hoping Prim responds before someone comes back and I have to shove my phone back into my purse. It's a long thirty seconds, but thankfully, Prim's up on her texting tonight.

Prim [9:09]: _Pretty, brown hair, green eyes, painfully shy?_

So. I guess that's confirmation that Peeta's actually a creepy asshole who dates his assistants. I'm torn between breathing a sigh of relief and becoming even more frustrated that I even care at all.

Katniss [9:10]: _Yep._

Prim [9:10]: _She's so nice!_

What, exactly, is my sister's angle here? And why is she so chipper? Doesn't she care that Peeta's literally fucking with her livelihood? I frown to myself as I type.

Katniss [9:10]: _Then why's she here with Peeta?_

Prim [9:11]: _Why do you care? {winky face emoji}_

I make a disgusted face as I swiftly put my phone away, my sister's obnoxious prodding overlapping with not only Finnick, but Peeta and Annie next to him, making their way back to our table. That, combined with the new information Prim's just given me, has helped me decide maybe I _do_ need that stiff drink. I stand as they approach.

"Look, honey, I'm making friends," Finnick grins at me, and my responding scowl only seems to encourage him. It's enough to make me wonder if I've missed some sort of exchange.

"I'm headed to the bar," I tell him flatly, squaring my shoulders when I feel two extra sets of eyes on me. "Want anything?"

"I'll go with you," Peeta jumps right in, forcing me to look at him. I bite my lip and furrow my brow.

"I can bring you something back too," I offer. It's a feeble attempt at avoidance.

"Now what kind of guy would I be if I let you do that?" he asks with a smile, his eyes actually sparkling with amusement. But if it's meant to be a dig on Finnick, he doesn't notice, already continuing the friendly chat it seems he's started with Annie as they both take their seats at the table.

And effectively forcing me into some quality alone time with Peeta.

"So. That guy's your boyfriend, huh?" he asks, leaning into me slightly and, shoving his hands nonchalantly into his suit pockets as we wait in line at the bar just outside of the ballroom.

I shrug off the rigidness my stance suddenly takes. "I really don't have the energy for this right now, okay?" I sigh, looking straight ahead at the older couple in front of us ordering a scotch and a red wine. I know Peeta's eyes don't leave me though.

"And the tall dark haired guy. He's—"

"I _said_ , I don't want to talk about this," I hiss, more frantically now. I really can't do this right now. I can't let Peeta splay my completely inadequate love life everywhere, just for his own enjoyment or for whatever reason he seems hell bent on doing it. Especially when he's so easily successful at his own—finding practical super models who are actually sweet and nice at what feels like the drop of a hat. I've got enough to be embarrassed about tonight as it is.

He honors my request for silence until after we order our drinks, and I'm ready to ditch him now that I have a drink in my hand. But he has other plans. "Hey," he says gently, grabbing my elbow to keep me from returning to the ballroom right away. I'm sure my face is a mix of anger and bewilderment, but I still freeze at his touch. "What do you say we get some fresh air?"

Normally, I'd see this for the trap that it is; just another way for Peeta to corner me and try to get me to talk to him. But I crane my neck through the doors and toward our table, where I see Gale and Madge retaking their seats. With cake. And then Finnick and Annie, who seem to be holding their own, still chatting amongst themselves. When I look back at Peeta, he's smiling guiltily. And it's almost as if…he knows.

"C'mon. They won't miss us."

_Oh god._ He knows.

I follow him wordlessly outside, to the deck that's open to guests. It's dark, and there's only one other couple already out there, off in a corner, sharing a cigarette. Under the dim lighting of one spotlight attached to the clubhouse and the half-moon hanging low in the sky, I see Peeta wrinkle his nose at them, and I can't help but smile inwardly. And with the cool air and the freedom of the open quiet away from everyone else, I feel myself instantly releasing tension.

"Look," Peeta begins to explain, as we end up against the deck railing, which keeps us penned in from the dark golf course with just the whispers of the other couple, a few crickets, and one hiccupping frog as background noise. He holds his hands up as if in surrender. "I just meant that you sure are popular at our table tonight. I wasn't trying to upset you."

I tilt my head toward him with a disbelieving eyebrow raise, and Peeta chuckles softly. "It's honestly not my fault if me just talking to you upsets you."

I sigh, setting my glass down on the ledge of the railing and looking back out into the darkness. "Can you just…cut me a break tonight, please?" My voice comes out smaller than it usually does, and I can hear how tired I sound. There's enough of a silence between us that I look back to him, and I can see his eyes flash with something other than bravado or amusement or self-assuredness for once. It's concern. And he furrows his brow.

"Yeah," he says softly. His fingers twitch slightly, and I watch him shove his free hand back into his pocket before he inches closer to me, leaning against the railing with me. "Okay."

I sigh again, wondering how the hell we ended up here. "Your date's really pretty."

"Who, Annie?"

I make a tired face at him. "Do you have another date?"

The corner of his mouth upturns slightly before he rattles his drink and takes a sip. "She works with me."

I turn around now, folding my arms across my chest as I study him, disapprovingly. "Don't you think it's a little unprofessional to date people who work for you?"

Peeta just smirks. "First of all, for someone who just asked me to cut her a break, you sure are being awfully accusatory." His smirk widens as my face falls. "And second of all, I think you're misjudging me again, Katniss. Because I don't operate like that. And she's just a friend. A coworker. Same as your _boyfriend's_ your coworker."

I may be feeling red-faced at Peeta calling me out, the flush eating at the apples of my cheeks and the tips of my ears, but I have my wits about me enough to know that not once has Finnick being my coworker been mentioned in front of Peeta. I narrow my eyes.

"So you _do_ know." I watch his reaction carefully.

"Katniss, he begins uncertainly, even though it's just because he's trying to figure out how to broach the subject, since he's clearly a newfound expert on my past life. "Besides the fact that I see your sister probably more than _you_ see your sister, you were wearing a ring the first time I met you. And well, you're not wearing a ring anymore."

His eyes linger on mine as he shrugs. "I know you think I'm an idiot, but I'm not."

To tell you the truth, I don't remember much about meeting Peeta. I don't know if it's because there's not much to remember, or if I just wasn't paying attention because I was too preoccupied with my own life and oblivious to a lot of things that didn't involve school or Gale or our wedding. For a while there, my life was a blur of lesson plans, flower consolations, and cake tastings. And then when I looked up from it all, all I could tell you about Peeta was that, according to Prim, he had commitment issues, and that the first time I really remember talking to him, he ended up telling me I'd be prettier if I didn't scowl so much. And he'd laughed when I'd scowled at him for it. I've basically hated him ever since. And I've also just kind of assumed that Peeta antagonized me because he was bored and it gave him something to do between his real romantic prospects.

"You noticed that?" I ask skeptically.

The bashfulness of his chuckle surprises me. "I noticed a hell of a lot more than that."

I feel the smile on my lips, which I reluctantly give into as I shake my head at him. "I won't tell your date you said that," I mumble.

"What?" Peeta asks, the familiar flicker of mischief returning to his eyes. "You and me, we're just friends, right? At least, that's what you've made incredibly clear to me. And this is just a _friendly_ conversation."

I swallow. Why do I feel the need to explain to him? My past, what's going on here tonight—it's none of his business. I don't like that he knows any of it. But now that I know he knows some of it, I can't stop myself from wanting to tell him the rest. Of the truth, that is. "It wasn't supposed to—he was just supposed to be my date tonight. So I wouldn't have to come alone. But then we got here, and Finnick just started to talk, and it kind of spiraled out of control."

Peeta laughs at me. A genuine, almost sweet laugh. I'm almost mesmerized by the way his eyes crinkle, and the way I can see his shoulders shaking slightly as he does. "Well, I think you can safely say that it worked. It's been kind of fun, watching your fian—I mean your ex's—eyes bug out of his head."

I try not to appear amused, staring at the deck's slatted wooden floor. "You didn't help, you know."

"I know," he agrees simply, without any difficulty. As if it's just a fact he was giving me—well all of us—a hard time. On purpose. With premeditation. But now his eyes convey his remorse. I'm not sure I like that any better, because they look remarkably like a puppy's as he apologizes. "I'm sorry."

I shake my head at him, scrunching my nose with a groan. "You're an idiot."

His smile does absolutely nothing to help my cause. "I already told you. I am not." He inches closer to me, close enough that his chin almost brushes up against my nose and I catch the scent of the same clean cologne he wore to Prim's wedding. "But Katniss, for what it's worth? As your friend?" He speaks the word deliberately and knowingly, with just the right amount of playfulness that makes me question his definition. "If you want to know who _is_ an idiot? It's the guy who didn't marry you."

Peeta drops his shoulders into me, letting out a soft exhale that has my gaze bouncing from his eyes to his mouth on baited breath. Because in this moment, it's as if we've both forgotten that we came here with our own dates. The air between us hangs heavy and the tension builds as neither of us moves. The realization that it'd be so easy, to lean in just slightly, barely inches, and kiss him scares me more than anything else has tonight.

And if not for the disruption of the sounds of the clubhouse doors swinging open and closed again as another couple joins us outside, I'm not entirely sure I could have stopped it from happening. But as quickly as it began, the moment ends as Peeta and I step back from one another, jolted back to reality by the banging noise and the recognition that we've been seen.

"I'll, uh, be sure to leave you alone the rest of the night," he assures me quietly, with a short nod.

And then he suggests we should probably get back to the reception.

***

"C'mon kid. Let's test out the dance floor." Finnick leans into my ear from his seat next to mine as I pick at a piece of wedding cake, hoping the reason my mind's gone fuzzy is because of the fourth glass of wine I have in front of me and not because I'm still recovering from my little trip outside. I look up at his expectant stare, which tells me we need to dance. The DJ's just begun a slower contemporary song, and he's right. Boyfriends dance with their girlfriends to slow songs. At least the good ones do. It's like he knows Gale doesn't dance. _Ever._ I glance quickly at Madge, who sighs tiredly, looking at her phone as Gale and Marvel talk about something I can't hear. And I smile quietly as I take Finnick's hand.

We dance casually, yet comfortably. Finnick's not the best dancer, but he doesn't have to be to move us in lazy circles to the beats of some generic Justin Timberlake wannabe slow jam.

"So," he tells me just as casually as he leads me. "You have more friends here than you originally thought you would." It's the first time since our car ride here we've been able to talk amongst only ourselves.

"I guess you could say that," I mumble. Finnick looks at me knowingly. Except I don't know what he knows.

"You know Annie's just here as Peeta's friend, right?"

I sigh. "Coworker," I correct him, now meeting his perceptive look with one of my own "You two had quite the chat then." I'm not accusing. I'm just stating.

Finnick gives me a lopsided smile. "Well when you went off to bicker with her date, you didn't leave us much choice."

Great. More explaining to do. I take a deep breath to begin. "Finnick, that's not—"

"—Annie's pretty huh?"

Finnick cutting me off to declare his attraction to another girl tonight takes me by surprise. Even on a night that's been full of surprises. Although I can't say I blame him. She's gorgeous. But Finnick's careful stare cuts into my bewilderment, as if there's secret meaning to his compliments for Peeta's date. Though what that is, I'm not quite sure. All I know is their not-so-secret meaning.

"You like her, don't you?" I ask him softly.

Finnick shakes his head, still smiling at me. "I just said she's pretty is all."

I drop my grip on his shoulders. And I stop dancing. Because Finnick hasn't called another girl pretty since he broke up with Johanna, and I'll be damned if I'm letting my stupid games get in the way of that. "Finnick. You should…talk to her then. Seriously."

Finnick laughs lightly, not letting me escape his dancing that easily as he picks my arms back up and puts them right back where they'd been. "First of all," he says after a beat of continuing our messy steps, "I _have_ been talking to her. And second of all, I didn't mean it like that, Katniss. Honestly. I'm still all yours tonight," he assures me, grinning widely and seeming pleased with himself. "And making all the guys jealous, apparently," he tells me. "Who knew I'd be such a bargain? Two for the price of one."

"Finnick," I warn, my voice low and slow.

"What?" he asks innocently, widening his eyes. "You didn't think I'd notice how Mr. Millionaire has a crush on you?" It's amazing, just how easily Finnick can suddenly sound exactly like my 25 year old sister.

I make a disgusted face. "Stop." Because he doesn't have to know that my head's still spinning or that a very small part of me _likes_ the idea of Peeta liking me.

Finnick just laughs at me though. "Katniss, we work with 13 year olds. So you can stop trying so hard. I think I know the whole _I hate you so much because I like you_ routine when I see it."

"Seriously," I groan stubbornly. "Not you too."

Finnick's still laughing at me, but he seems to be willing to give in to my request. "All right, fine. But when you finally figure out that you don't hate him, I approve. If only because he drove Gale crazier tonight than I did," he winks.

I roll my eyes, but my face softens. "Thank you, by the way," I tell him, hoping I'm smoothly changing the subject. "For tonight. You've been a pretty great fake boyfriend."

Finnick smiles appreciatively. "It's been my pleasure." Then he leans into my ear. "And by my estimation, we've got three more songs and then we can get the hell out of here."

I laugh, and we dance. And I stare over Finnick's shoulder, my eyes gravitating towards our table just in time to see Gale stand up from his seat, kissing the top of Madge's head lightly before extending his hand to her. She smiles sweetly as he helps her out of her chair. I'm pretty sure they're headed home. Because Gale doesn't dance, and there's nothing left to do here _but_ dance. It used to bother me—Gale not dancing—but with the way Madge is still looking at him, it certainly doesn't look like it bothers her.

And it's right then that I realize exactly what an immature 13 year old I really have been tonight. For as jealous or uncomfortable that I may have made Gale, which would probably be anyone's simple knee jerk reaction to seeing someone you used to love with someone else, at the end of the day, he's happy. Madge makes him happy. Happier than I did. There's nothing I can do about it, either; it's just a fact of life—he wants Madge more. And tonight, I can honestly say that I'm no longer upset about it. And that Gale no longer feels like…mine. Which is good. I don't want him to be mine. I don't want him. So if he's happy, then good. Not that I'm necessarily happy _for_ him, because things still ended too ugly and too badly for me to ever wish eternal happiness on him, but at least I'm over it. And I don't want to think about him anymore.

So I snap my gaze away from them, inadvertently landing on a set of blue eyes that belong to Peeta, who's staring back at me from the edge of the dance floor where it looks like he's currently trying to good-naturedly convince Annie to dance.

And he smiles.

And I want to hate Finnick for being right. But I can't.

Instead I just smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You guys and your responses to this story have been so, so wonderful. And it definitely keeps me motivated to keep up with the updates when I hear from you-so thank you. So, I hope this chapter lived up to expectations; and I'd love to know what you think. And if you'd like, feel free to come play with me on tumblr. I'm @ c-r-roberts over there. :)_


	4. Chapter 4

The Fourth of July falls on a Monday this year. It's the perfect excuse for Prim and Thom to invite friends to their lake house for the long weekend. So early that Saturday morning, that's where I'm headed. I ride with Prim and Thom—and Buttercup—since it didn't make sense to drive the two hours myself. Although a few minutes of sharing the backseat with the devil dog and Prim and Thom's choice of music—country, _always country at the lake_ —has me already regretting my decision.

"So who's all coming again?" I ask, pushing Buttercup away from attempting to climb into my lap for the third time.

I hear Prim begin to list off names from the front seat.

"Well, Leevy and Mitchell should be there shortly after we get there," she begins, referring to Thom's sister and her husband who live an hour in the other direction from the lake. "And Bristel said she's coming, right?" Prim asks Thom, and I catch a glimpse of her profile as she turns to look at her husband. Thom nods from the driver's seat as he changes lanes to pass a slow moving semi-truck. Bristel is Thom's sister who's Prim's age. "My brother too," he adds, rounding out the entirety of his siblings.

"Oh, and Rue said she's driving up this evening."

This is good news, since I like Rue, but a slightly sick feeling hits in the pit of my stomach when I think of Prim's other friends who could be there this weekend.

"Is Delly coming?" Thom asks, as if reading my mind. I sense an annoyed tone to his voice as he does, and I remember that I can really like Thom sometimes.

I catch Prim rolling her eyes from the reflection of the rearview mirror. "No. She's staying in town with some new boyfriend she claims to have."

"I wonder if he knows he's her boyfriend or if she's just following him around and hoping to 'randomly' run into him."

I almost choke, holding back a laugh.

Prim sighs, although I can tell she's smiling too. "Be nice," she scolds. "She's just…persistent. Some guy will like that someday."

Thom snorts. "If she weren't pretty, some guy would have pressed charges by now."

Prim ignores him, craning her neck around to look at me. She grins. "Peeta's coming too, but not until tomorrow."

"Oh yeah," Thom chimes in, and suddenly I'm the one being ganged up on. "I hear the two of you are matchmakers these days."

I narrow my eyes at Prim, who's still staring at me expectantly. That's rich, coming from the two of them. But he's referring to Finnick and Annie. They have a date this weekend.

"That sure was a piece of luck, the two of them ending up at the same wedding," Prim says, smiling sweetly at me before turning back around in her seat.

"Yeah," I agree dryly. "Who would have thought they'd both be at the same wedding."

It's been two weeks since Darius's wedding, but Prim still hasn't officially owned up to knowing that Peeta would be there. And I still haven't forgiven her for it, since I'm still recovering from parts of that night. Prim doesn't respond though, happily turning up the volume when some song claiming to like _chicken fried_ and _cold beer on a Friday night_ comes on, and instead she begins to sing along.

As if on cue, Buttercup's nose butts up against my thigh, and I sigh.

***

Leevy and Mitchell claim the second bedroom, and since they're the only other married couple, it makes sense. Leevy even offers to let Bristel set up an air mattress on the floor if necessary, but it still means I'm relegated to either the back bunk bed room, or a pull out couch in the living area. I opt for one of the bunk beds, claiming a bottom bed with my overnight bag.

And then the weekend officially begins when Thom comes back from the grocery store a mile down the road with enough beer to get a small army drunk and hamburgers and hot dogs he plans to throw on the grill. We sit on their patio, waiting for others to trickle in. Their house is one of a few houses butted up against Coldwater Lake's shoreline. The house is small, but they have a large piece of property, with enough room for a pool and a fire pit before the yard turns into a small sandy beach. And their house also has channel access, so the side of the yard is actually a dock, where Prim and Thom's boat and jet skis are kept. It's a pretty day too, with a high noon sunshine filtering in through the trees on the partly shaded back patio. I can see plenty of boats out on the water from my seat, and even though it isn't very big, just an inlet fresh water lake that's maybe two miles from one end to the other, all of it makes me feel like I'm really on vacation.

Especially when, an hour later, we're at the pool, and I'm dangling my feet in the water with Prim and Leevy and Bristel, and Prim insists on keeping my red solo cup full of the Bloody Mary mix she's made. The guys—Thom, his brother, Mitchell, and Thresh, who'd pulled up about fifteen minutes ago—are all out on the jet skis, probably trying to throw one another off of them, if I had to guess. Which leaves the girls to prime gossip time. And inevitably, after we discuss potential baby names for Leevy, who's four months pregnant, and gush over the fact that Prim's wedding photos turned out perfectly, I eventually become the topic of conversation.

"So are you and Peeta dating now?" Bristel asks as she sips her drink casually. I glare at Prim, thinking she must have put Thom's sisters up to this, for just _so naturally_ bringing up Peeta, but she just shrugs, at least feigning her innocence.

I take an extra big gulp of my Bloody Mary then jab the celery stick into the drink a few times before I answer.

"Absolutely not."

Bristel seems genuinely surprised. "Oh. It just seemed like, at the reception, that, well—"

"—It was just a stupid kiss," I finally sigh, not letting her finish whatever thought she was trying to convey. Prim snorts under her breath, and I go ahead and ignore her.

"Yeah well, I wish a guy would just kiss me like that, then," Bristel giggles. I manage not to make a face, because these are Thom's sisters—my sister's new sisters—and I have to play nice. Even if I'm incredibly annoyed right now.

"Be careful what you wish for," Leevy chimes in with a laugh. "That kind of kiss can lead to _this_ ," she warns, pointing to her barely protruding belly.

The three of them laugh, and I decide I hate them all. And that I'm free to make whatever disgusted faces I like.

"Oh, come on Katniss," Prim chides me when she sees my extreme scowl. "We're just having fun."

Leevy looks at me apologetically when she realizes I'm not taking the conversation very well. "I'm sorry. It's just that Peeta's like another little brother to me. And it's fun to see someone keep him on his toes."

_Great._ So Prim didn't prompt Thom's sisters for their questions and it turns out that the _Katniss and Peeta Forever_ bandwagon is bigger than I thought. I wrinkle my nose and stare into my cup before tipping it back and emptying it of its contents. Then I hand the empty cup to Prim for a refill.

Because I've decided today is a good day to get drunk.

***

I wake up early the following morning—prompted by an earlier than usual bed time after a few too many drinks—and decide to go for a run on the path built along the road that winds its way lazily along the shoreline and into town. It's a good way to sweat some of the poison out of me, and it gives me time alone to clear my head. Because while yesterday was fun, being around so many people that I don't even know all that well is also kind of overwhelming. Especially when those people want to ask me questions that make me fidget. It works too, because the sun rising over the water and the light breeze that blows as I run into town and back makes for a peaceful, satisfying workout.

When I return, the house is quiet because everyone's made their way to the dock. I see people sipping coffee, or mimosas, and even pre-noon beer. It looks like Thom's readying the boat to take it out on the water today. I can't tell if I catch Prim's eye from this distance, but I think she notices me before I enter the house, where I fully intend to take advantage of its emptiness and jump in the shower to rinse off the sweat from my run.

I get ready quickly, absently humming in the shower under the stream of water I purposely keep cold in order to cool off, and then dig haphazardly through my bag once I'm back in the bunk bed room. I throw on my suit, a simple fatigue green halter top bikini, so I can head out onto the dock with everyone else. And I'm just zipping up my favorite pair of chino shorts, which are a faded beige color, when I almost jump out of my skin as the door to the bedroom creeks open.

"Someone's in here," I half-screech, half-yelp.

But it's too late. Peeta's already standing in the now open door way, looking just as surprised as I feel, with wide eyes and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"Oh god, I'm sorry. I swear I didn't know."

He seems genuinely shocked, and there's a red tinge brightening his cheeks. I still eye him suspiciously, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling more naked than I actually am. His eyes instinctively graze my exposed form, just like I observe him in a red polo shirt and navy club shorts. I wonder if he was intentionally patriotic with his wardrobe choice or if it's just an unfortunate coincidence as I purse my lips.

"Your sister said I could leave my things in here."

_Fucking Prim._

"I'm done," I say with a shrug. Though I make no attempt to move from my place next to the lone dresser pushed against the wall beneath the window, the blinds still drawn from last night, with only a few streaks of sunlight peaking in on us.

Peeta gives me an awkward nod before finally deciding to cross the threshold of the room, looking for a place to put his bag.

"The beds are claimed already," I tell him. "Unless you want to cuddle with Thresh."

Peeta smirks, dropping his bag to the floor. "So, no boyfriend this weekend, Everdeen?"

I roll my eyes. "I think he's too busy hanging out with your date."

Peeta grins, crouching down and unzipping his bag, beginning to fumble through it. "That's going to be a great story to tell their future kids one day."

From the way Finnick sounded—excited and like a teenage boy—when I'd talked to him briefly about his plans with Annie tonight, Peeta might not actually be all that far off base. I watch silently for a moment as Peeta pulls out a pair of swim trunks before standing back up and meeting my gaze at eye level. He scratches at the back of his head with his free hand.

"I think we're uh, supposed to be headed out on the boat soon? Thom said something about taking it to grab lunch?"

The Breakwall. It's the waterfront café across the lake. So that's why Thom's getting the boat ready. But I'm surprised Peeta seems not to know much about it, since I'm aware he visits Thom's lake house all the time. I've only been here two or three times, and I've been there for lunch at least twice.

"Oh. Yeah, okay."

"So. I was going to change before we head out."

_Oh. Right._ "Sorry," I apologize in a mumble, jumping into action to grab a chambray shirt from my bag, throwing my arms through it as Peeta raises an eyebrow.

"You're welcome to stay, if you like."

I shake my head at him with a pointed scowl, which only encourages the pleased look on his face. I pull the shirt closely against me before crossing my arms tightly over my chest again and turning on my heel.

"I'll see you out there."

I can feel his eyes on me as I leave.

***

Twenty minutes later, seven of us load onto Thom's boat. It's big enough for everyone, but Leevy, Mitchell and Bristel opt not to come in favor of going into town and exploring the tiny downtown Main Street the lake community has to offer. I slide into one of the three seats available at the stern of the boat, next to Rue and Thom's brother. Thresh promptly tosses me a beer from the small cooler we've packed for the ride, and I catch the can of Yuengling in one hand. He gives me an impressed look and I tap the top of the can a few times before popping open the tab with a smile. Then he busies himself offering beers to the others.

I sip a few sips of the lager as we push off and chug along the channel at a snail's pace, but it's barely noon and it's not like I'm trying to get drunk before dinner, _again_ , so I mostly just hold the can in my hand, craning my neck behind me to watch the shoreline begin to diminish.

"So, how far away is this place?" Peeta's voice cuts through the wind that's beginning to pick up as the boat's engine hums to life once we break free of the channel and onto the open waters. At first glance, Peeta seems almost like a college kid rather than the successful thirty year old he is, wearing a backwards baseball hat and a thin faded t-shirt he's thrown on with his trunks for the ride. But despite his summer tan, which not only brings out the blue of his eyes as well as smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, Peeta's face is currently puke white. And he looks anything but comfortable as he sits at attention, white-knuckling the inner side-rail of Thom's boat from his seat directly across from mine.

"Just a short 45 minute trip," Thom calls from his position near bow of the boat, manning the wheel. I don't miss the wink he throws my way, or the way Prim shakes her head at him from her seat up front.

I also don't miss, what I believe to be for the first time ever, Peeta scowl. And I can't help it. I laugh. It's strangely endearing, watching Peeta freak out. He's always come off as so invincible; and as if he's never known a bad day. I'm not sure exactly what he's freaking out about, since we're perfectly safe and the waterfront café is twenty minutes away at worst, but I'm still smiling when he directs that scowl at me.

"Something funny?"

I shrug, pulling my hair over my shoulder to keep it from whipping in the breeze. The water smells cool and fresh, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling wider when we hit a wave and all of us bounce as if the boat just went over a speed bump, which just makes Peeta's grip tighter.

"I've just never seen you look…worried, before."

Thom chuckles, and responds before Peeta can open his mouth. "Peeta doesn't usually come on the boat with us. He's more of a land mammal."

I furrow my brow. "What? Is it motion sickness? Are you aquaphobic or something?" The idea of either is so foreign to me, since being on—or in—the water usually brings me peace. But I almost feel guilty for it, watching Peeta blink his blond lashes against the overhead summer sun as he stares at the floor of the boat.

"I can't swim," he mumbles.

And at that, Peeta has to react quickly in order to not be clocked in the head with the life vest Thom tosses him.

"You have to wear it then." The joy on Thom's face as he teases his best friend is more than evident.

Prim clucks her tongue at her husband as everyone on the boat watches. "Stop it."

"What?" Thom asks innocently, taking a nonchalant sip of his beer he's keeping in the holder just inside the boat's windshield. "Rules are rules."

"Oh please," Prim sighs, looking at Peeta sympathetically. Then she fixes her gaze on me like she's just solved a puzzle. "Katniss used to lifeguard. If Peeta goes in, save him, okay?"

I look at her warily. And Peeta responds with his own wary look directed at me.

"I think I'll wear the vest. Just in case."

I grin.

***

We all—including Peeta—survive lunch and the boat ride. And everyone spends that afternoon on the small sand beach that Prim and Thom share with only a few neighbors. We set up shop in the far corner of the beach with blankets and chairs, an umbrella for the fairer-skinned, and a cooler full of beer. And thank god for the beer. And the sunshine. And the waves lapping against the shoreline. Because it all works together to help drown out the noise of the guys playing some dumb game that they find way too entertaining, judging by the way they're yelling and laughing loudly behind us. Although no amount of alcohol or lapping water can help with the continuous stream of country music that Prim insists on playing from her iPhone as the girls lounge in the sun. So I sip my Oberon gratefully, thinking it makes the annoyingly twangy sounds of Jason Aldean singing about pickup trucks and _dirt road anthems_ just a little more bearable as I try to relax in a beach chair low to the sand and facing the water. And I'm swigging heavily on my beer bottle while wondering just how many times Bristel can claim to _love this song_ when I learn I have a surprising ally in my war on bad music.

He makes it known when he returns to our spot to grab a new beer, just after he digs through the cooler, shaking the ice off of a bottle of Yuengling and twisting off its cap. I watch him from behind the secrecy of my Ray-Bans, where I take in his broad form, strong and tanned and shirtless in the early July afternoon heat. And while Peeta's switched out his baseball hat in favor of his aviators, it's still too easy for me to notice the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles before taking a sip from his fresh beer.

"How's your stupid game going?" I ask, pressing my own bottle back to my lips for another small sip with an even smaller smile.

"I just lost my partner," he says with a nod toward the house that I see Thresh making his way back to. I shoot him a look suggesting I don't really care, when Peeta shakes his head at me, looking amused. But his amusement changes to an expression of disgust as yet another country song begins to play. "Think we could change the station for a little while?" he asks, directing the question at Prim.

"Please," I mutter under my breath earning a dirty look from Prim. But she sighs, reaching for her phone.

"You know, you two are the only ones complaining." She switches the station anyway, and ends up catching the second half of Cage the Elephant's " _Take it or Leave it,_ " and I immediately react.

"Leave it," I instruct her. It happens at the exact same time the exact same words leave Peeta's mouth too. Prim arches her eyebrow high enough I can see it above her oversized sunglasses and I pretend not to feel the flush in my cheeks as Peeta gives me a funny look.

"You like this song?"

I shrug, trying not to appear impressed that Peeta Mellark may also be a fan of one of my favorite, although slightly obscure, bands.

He swallows a gulp of beer before coming up for air with a crooked smile. "They're coming next month you know."

Before I can respond, Prim throws a knowing look my way. "Don't let her fool you. She had a Nick Carter poster above her bed until she was 15."

Peeta smirks at the embarrassing, though true, dissemination of information. "I would've pegged you for more of an 'N Sync girl myself."

I wrinkle my nose. "That's the worst insult you've ever given me."

Peeta laughs, before turning to look at the contraption set up twenty yards behind us.

"Hey. Wanna play this stupid game with me?"

And in analyzing my choices—stupid game or stupider girl chatter where I'm probably just going to be the topic of conversation again—I reluctantly agree. And then try to fight the tingly warmth in the pit of my stomach that I get when Peeta grins a triumphant grin.

"What the hell is the point of this game anyway?" I ask, trudging through the sand with him. I eye the two PVC pipe poles set upright with empty beer bottles placed atop of them with doubt. Thom and his brother stop throwing the Frisbee amongst themselves when they see renewed competition approaching.

"It's called Beersbee," Peeta explains, fully expecting the dirty look I give him. And apparently, the point of the game is to throw the Frisbee at the empty beer bottles in the hopes of knocking the bottles off of the poles. But there are rules. If your team catches the bottle before it hits the ground, then you're safe. And you also have to catch the Frisbee. Oh, and you have to do all of it while keeping a beer in your hand. If the bottle falls to the ground, the throwing team gets 3 points. And if you drop the Frisbee, they get 1 point. But if you drop your beer, well then it's game over.

"This really is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of," I grumble when Peeta insists I take my place on the other side of the pole from him. Thom laughs at me while we wait for his brother to return with new beers for them.

"You two ready to get crushed?" he asks, sounding kind of drunk as he tries to trash talk.

"Don't listen to him," Peeta says to me, loud enough for Thom to hear. "Thom hasn't made a point yet." I smile, watching Peeta jump and nimbly catch the Frisbee Thom attempts to sail over his head. And I realize that even playing really dumb games, I'm competitive enough to still want to win.

It's actually easier to get the hang of the game than I thought it would be, and it turns out Peeta and I make a pretty good team. He has good hands, and in his words, I have "remarkable aim," which he tells me after the second time in a row my throw successfully knocks the bottle off the McIntosh brothers' pole.

"You picked up a ringer," Thom grumbles at the end of our first victory, after Prim's switched the Pandora station to _Hits of the '90s_ and everyone seems happy enough to listen to a selection that includes Nirvana, Eagle-Eye Cherry, and yes, even the Backstreet Boys.

Peeta grins at me. "Want to beat them again?"

I finish off the rest of my beer before smiling back and turning to Thom. "He wasn't kidding. You really haven't made a point all day."

Peeta laughs over the sounds of the Gin Blossoms' _Follow You Down_ , and as we make Thom fetch new beers for everyone, I decide this stupid game is sort of fun. But I also decide that my enjoyment has absolutely no correlation to the way Peeta's laugh makes me want to laugh too, or how I secretly think he has more than just good _hands._

***

We spend the evening grilling out, and after dinner, Thom and Peeta build a camp fire, which we sit around with an interesting mix of alcohol and the ingredients for s'mores. I strategically place myself on opposite sides of the fire from Peeta, though, opting to sit between Rue and Prim. And I make small talk and s'mores with the best of them, pretending Peeta doesn't exist because things had gotten too flirty for me on the beach. There wasn't one specific moment that made me think I needed to pull back or anything, but I can't stop feeling the spot where his hand had grazed the small of my back when we'd almost collided, both going for the Frisbee at the same time.

In fact, the only time we talk is when I announce I'm headed into bed and he calls out across the fire to tell me good night. I stop, watching his eyes studying me carefully, probably trying to figure out why I've been ignoring him. I wonder if my expression gives away the answer. _Self-preservation._

" 'Night," I say, as casually as possible, before disappearing into the house.

The night ends up being pretty tame though, and after a long day in the sun, everyone else isn't too far behind me as I hear them come back into the house from my spot in bed. In fact, judging by the house's silence and the fact that the other bunk beds fill up quickly, everyone goes to bed at a reasonable hour.

Though that doesn't mean that all of us fall asleep at a reasonable hour.

I'm still awake hours after climbing into my bottom bunk. And at two in the morning, the sound of the snoring coming from the person sleeping above me is ungodly. Rue may be tiny, but her nostrils must be huge, because the noises she makes with them as she breathes in her sleep are loud enough to shake the bed. I don't remember anything like this last night, but then again I'd passed out long before anyone else. But after tossing and turning for over an hour, I give up trying and head to the kitchen for a glass of water, figuring I can wait out the noise, or until she rolls over on her side, or _something_ , there.

When I pad lightly into the common area, I'm expecting to have to feel my way blindly in the darkness. But instead I'm greeted by a soft glow coming from the other side of the room, where I notice Peeta, propped up in a sitting position against the back of the sofa bed. He's got a light blanket thrown over his lower half, and the bluish tint coming from the iPad he's currently bent over illuminates him just enough for me to see the look of concentration on his face that doesn't break until I clear my throat softly.

"Hey," he whispers, looking as though I've caught him off guard, though he doesn't seem entirely unhappy about it. There's nothing rational about me being secretly pleased he's awake right now either, but it doesn't stop my pulse from quickening regardless. Peeta's lips quirk upward and he purposefully switches off his iPad, placing it at his side. I nod silently before burying my head in the refrigerator, pulling out the Brita.

"You're up late," I respond quietly and matter of factly as I place the pitcher on the kitchen's island and move to open a cupboard in search of a glass.

"Mind pouring me a glass too?" I hear him ask, his voice sounding nearer now. I grab two glasses instead of one from the shelf, placing them next to the pitcher while I watch Peeta cross the room out of the corner of my eye. He runs his hand through his hair as he climbs up on one of the kitchen stools and watches me pour.

"Can't sleep?" he asks once I meet his gaze. I push his water gently in his direction, sighing before I take a big gulp of my own. The liquid is cool and sweet, and the action allows me a fraction of a second to gather my thoughts. The lake house hums quietly in our silence, with just the noise of the refrigerator running, and the air conditioning humming on and off as needed. And even through the closed windows, I can still catch the faint sounds of waves lapping against the shore outside.

I shake my head, rubbing an eye tiredly as I do. "You might not think it, but Rue is one hell of a snorer."

Peeta laughs under his breath, then sips his own water quietly. I watch him as he does.

"So, what's keeping you up out here anyway?"

"Believe it or not, but a pull out couch is not as comfortable as my own bed."

I smirk. "Well maybe you should buy your own lake house then. I think the one down the street's for sale, actually. Then we could _all_ sleep in peace."

Peeta laughs quietly again, but he shakes his head at me. "Nah. I'm not really in the market. Besides, I'm saving my money."

I absently lean on my hands, raising my eyebrows curiously. "For what?"

"Oh, I don't know. A small country?" Peeta shrugs, already grinning. And I laugh, too loudly, which causes both of us to look around for any signs of life from the three bedrooms that are just a wall or two away. There's nothing, but when Peeta nods his head toward the enclosed patio off to my right, I don't hesitate to follow, since if we're going to talk, we might as well do it without the chance of being caught.

"What?" he asks, with a playful lilt to his voice as we make our way out of the kitchen. "That'd be pretty fun to own, right?"

This conversation's so ridiculous that I can't help but smile. I roll my eyes again, sliding onto the wicker patio furniture and sinking into its surprisingly comfortable cushions. "Make it an island," I tell him as Peeta plops softly down next to me, setting his water glass on the coffee table in front of us. I do the same. "I like beaches."

Peeta raises his forehead as he adjusts to make himself comfortable, which includes inching in my direction and tossing a throw pillow that had separated us to the other side of him. It's so naturally easy for him—gaining proximity so casually. Which is in stark contrast to the way it affects my nerves, because it makes me feel anything but easy or natural. "So does that mean you're requesting citizenship?"

"You're a dork," I accuse with an exaggerated sigh.

"Two words. Backstreet Boys. So are you."

_Fair enough._

"But seriously," he continues, the tone of his voice changing. "I don't need, or want, those things. And it seems silly to have more than one house when I'm barely at the one I own." I can't help but watch him carefully now, unable to look away from his face, with his blond hair and eyelashes that practically reflect the moonlight that streams through the large patio windows. This is the most information Peeta's ever given me about himself. And while I'm not sure what's prompting him, especially at two in the morning, it seems to spill from him so easily that I don't want to stop him.

"I work. A lot, Katniss," he sighs, and I realize that some of the tiredness in his voice seems attributed to things other than it being late right now. "And other than invest a little, and travel some, I have no idea what to do. I know that I'm lucky, okay? Things weren't supposed to work out this well for me."

I frown at the concern on his face, as if he feels guilty for his wealth. Which is as ridiculous as the thought of him owning a country. "Don't say that," I say, the words falling softly but firmly from my mouth, which surprises even me. "You deserve the things you've worked for."

It's true. Peeta may be a lot of things, but undeserving of his success in life is not one of them. He's worked hard. He and Thom both have. And for all the reservations I may have about him, none of them have ever been about money.

It's Peeta's turn to study me carefully, and I fidget under his gaze, picking up my water glass to sip it slowly.

"All I'm saying is that I don't…need it. It's not why I started this company—to be wealthy. I never pictured myself as a CEO when I started painting houses to make a little extra money in college. So. Sometimes it's a little overwhelming."

"Oh." My response is lame, but it's hard to know what to say to him. Seriously, all of this _spilling his guts to me in earnest_ stuff is starting to make me feel slightly on edge. We've never even had a genuine conversation before.

"And these things—the boats, the houses, the extra cars," he says with a shake of his head, "I honestly don't see the point, at least without someone to share it with."

I shrug, leaning back against the hard arm of the loveseat, since we've angled ourselves in a way that I've wound up practically facing Peeta as he's been talking. And I feel myself slipping back into my normal suspicious disposition, because I'm not sure what he's implying. "So share it with someone then," I tell him nonchalantly. "It doesn't seem like that'd be too hard for someone like you to do."

"Someone like me," Peeta finally repeats, his words as deliberate as his stare. "You think you know me so well, huh?"

"I have an idea," I respond, turning up my nose defensively.

"Yeah, the _wrong_ idea."

"Well, what am I supposed to think, Peeta?" I ask incredulously. "With your revolving door of women and your casual attitude toward dance floor make out sessions?" _Seriously._ And if we're going to be honest tonight, then he must know he hasn't exactly painted himself in the best light. Right?

Peeta looks intrigued with me at first, like he enjoys the way I've become bothered by him, my voice cracking as I hiss at him in a hushed whisper. But instead of his face breaking out into a smug grin, or him saying something smart in response like I'm expecting, his eyes fall from my face when I stare back at him, still waiting for my answer. He sighs, turning to look out the window into the dark shadows of the trees and the shoreline. I watch his profile, the line of his jaw setting firmly as he presses his mouth together, like he's still thinking. And seeming uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

"I really messed up, kissing you like that, didn't I?"

I consider him with another sip of my water before placing it down carefully. His eyes follow my movements until he looks back at me and I cross my arms over my chest. We've talked about this already. And we'd both agreed it had been a mistake. But sometimes…sometimes I'm not so sure. Like now, when he shakes his head, taking my silence as an implied yes.

"You really hated it that much?"

No. I didn't hate it. I didn't hate it at all. That's the problem. I just hated what it stood for.

And that's the other problem.

"I didn't hate it, okay?"

His eyebrow quirks with piqued interest, and I sigh.

"But I…don't do casual. I can't kiss someone when it doesn't mean anything. I can't just kiss people for _fun_ , like you can."

More importantly, I don't _want_ to. Even if it's the type of kiss you think about for weeks. And wonder how one stupid dance with one usually incredibly annoying person can make you feel like you've never felt with anyone else. As if, if only for a few seconds, you were the only two people that existed, even in a very crowded room.

And it's this—the scary, undeniable pull that Peeta has that's kept me running from him since then.

I watch his tongue dart across his lips quickly as he lets his bottom lip drop in a soft exhale. "Katniss. You really don't get it, do you?" His voice is low but serious, and I shrug my shoulders softly, feeling helpless in more ways than one.

Peeta swallows hard, and I watch the lump that travels down his throat as he does. "Katniss, you're so wrong. Really, really wrong. But if you think for one second that kiss meant nothing to me, well then clearly I did something wrong too." He pauses briefly, making sure my eyes meet his. "Because kissing you? It meant everything to me."

My mouth falls open, and I see just the hint of satisfaction on Peeta's lips at my surprise. But there's also an earnest nervousness in his eyes when both of us begin to lean in.

My own eyes flutter closed before I feel his mouth on mine, taking my bottom lip between both of his. They feel warm but unexpectedly soft, and he tastes minty, like toothpaste as we fall into a comfortable rhythm of feather-light, tentative kisses.

If I think I should be feeling any sort of conflicting emotion kissing Peeta, I don't. Though I quickly feel that heat again as our innocent kisses turn into something more breathless. His hands find their way to my hips, his fingertips slipping under the hem of my tank top and digging softly into my skin, as if he's holding me in place. It's almost embarrassing how easily I melt into his touch, considering the amount of time I've spent resisting him. But Peeta—his lips, his hands, _all_ of him, feels so good. I slide a hand up to the day old stubble on his neck, brushing my thumb against the line of his jaw, kissing him until we're finally forced to come up for air.

"See," he says, his voice a husky whisper against my ear. "When it means something, that's when it's the _most_ fun."

"Shut up," I whisper back, not letting the grin I know he's trying to flash get any further than an upturn of his lips before pressing mine against them again.

I feel kind of like a teenager, sneaking kisses with Peeta in the middle of the night with a house full of people who could catch us at any moment. His effect is dizzying and enthralling, as if I'm as drunk as Thom was before he passed out hours ago. He swirls his tongue in my mouth, and my hands are needy but unsure as they make their way to his broad chest, tugging gently at his shirt to pull him into me further, like we're sixteen and in the backseat of his car. A low moan escapes his throat when I reposition to lower myself under him, allowing his upper half to press against me. I sigh back into him, knowing that I've never felt this good—this _alive_ —from just a kiss.

It's almost scary—how much I like kissing him. And I'm not ready for it. Not for the warmth that courses through me at his touch, or the desire to do so much more than kiss. Because while it's clear what we're doing right now means something, I certainly have no idea what that something is. And at some point—some point soon—we're going to have to stop, because my hands have moved to the short tendrils of hair at nape of his neck and his are starting to reach for places I might not be able to come back from.

"Peeta," I croak weakly, when his lips travel to the crook of my neck. I scrunch my eyes closed when I feel his mouth lift from my skin at my protest. And he pulls back slightly, blinking his eyes open as he tilts his head back with a nervous, breathy laugh as his eyes land back on mine, searching for what must be the answers I clearly don't have. He strokes my hair softly, his fingers pushing a loose strand back behind my ear.

"Please don't regret this in the morning," he whispers with another strained chuckle.

I furrow my brow with concern, even though he's clearly trying to make his request sound like a joke. "I won't," I promise softly, my throat feeling dry. But at the same time, I draw back awkwardly from him with the realization that what we're doing right now probably shouldn't be happening. Not at my sister's lake house, where any one of eight other people could stumble out of a drunken sleep to find us in a compromising position. Peeta's hands run themselves down the length of my shoulders, coming to a rest on my upper arms. I try to swallow. "But I should also, uh, go to bed. Soon."

A smile ghosts over his lips before he presses them against my forehead, kissing me with a soft, slow kiss that barely dusts my skin. There's an obvious change in his demeanor tonight that I can't quite pinpoint. And while it's different, it's still so inherently _him._

"I have a whole pull out bed," he murmurs, with a playfulness in his eyes that makes my stomach swoop so hard it aches. I squirm beneath him with a nervous laugh.

"How romantic."

"Beats snoring," he retorts before his mouth returns to the same spot on my neck. "I could even take the other couch," he offers, sending a shiver up my spine with his hot breath against my skin.

"That's only slightly less suspicious," I protest, although I don't exactly do anything to stop him from sucking my skin gently.

"Right," he breathes, and I can hear the tease to his voice. "It'd be terrible to let them think what they already think." I push him in the chest lightly and he laughs, finally relenting. He pulls back and drops his chin to meet me at eye level with an easy, lopsided grin.

I bite my lip with a smile of my own, thinking that maybe just a _little_ bit longer couldn't hurt. And try to validate my delusion with the thoughts of Rue still snoring on the bed above mine.

_Oh god, I honestly hope I don't regret this._

"Maybe five more minutes?"

Peeta's eyes flash his approval before promptly kissing me again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you to you lovely readers for your incredible response to this story. I certainly hope you liked this chapter even just a sliver as much as I enjoyed writing it. ;) And don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts, or to come find me on tumblr. I'm @ c-r-roberts there. ___


	5. Chapter 5

I wake before eight the next morning, but Prim, Thom, Thresh, Leevy, and Peeta are all already awake when I make my way into the kitchen, letting out the rest of a yawn.

"Good morning sleepy head," Prim greets me cheerfully from one of the kitchen island stools, where she sits hunched over a cup of coffee. I give an unenergetic wave to the group and attempt to suppress the awkwardness and general feelings of terror that hit me at the sight of Peeta as I help myself to a cup of coffee. It's impossible not to think that everyone somehow just _knows_. And it's also impossible for me to meet Peeta's eye, choosing to ignore him from where he sits on the sofa he'd slept on last night.

"She's probably tired because it was like trying to sleep with a freight train in that back room," Thresh says. I laugh, almost spitting out the hot coffee as I do, because I've never heard a more accurate depiction of a noise in my life. Thresh chuckles at me with a shrug. "I gave up and came out on the spare couch around four."

My eyes fly to Peeta, who's already staring at me with an amused look. An hour earlier, and we'd have been caught.

I look back to Prim and pretend Peeta's not still watching. "Rue snores."

Prim laughs too. "I've lived with her. Why do you think she ended up in the back bedroom?"

I wipe my eyes tiredly with a shake of my head and I remember to breathe again, because it seems like we're in the clear. Everyone's more interested in talking about Rue and what's for breakfast than the fact that I spent way too much time last night with my mouth attached to Peeta's. Which makes it all the easier to pretend like it didn't happen. At least for right now.

The day's plans begin to take shape as everyone trickles out from their respective sleeping places and Thom mentions the idea of having an early cook out before packing up and heading back to the city. It's Monday, and while today's the actual holiday, most of us have to work tomorrow. Thresh declines, saying he's getting on the road soon to attend a family party. But Leevy and Mitchell agree to stay for lunch before going their own way back home. And I'm picking at half a bagel when Peeta says he's probably going to head back sooner than later too, since he'd like to finish up a presentation he's supposed to give to a prospective client tomorrow. He's pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee as he does, and although I can feel his presence behind me, I keep picking at the bagel like it's infinitely more interesting than the soft timbre of Peeta's voice.

I do, however, catch Prim roll her eyes at him. "Peeta. It's a holiday. Stay."

Peeta snorts, leaning against an open space on the kitchen island just to the left of me. "It's a holiday celebrating the birth of a nation built on the notion of capitalism and the pursuit of happiness. In fact, it's a holiday celebrating my right to work."

Thom laughs at him and I try to hide my smile behind a bite of bagel as Prim frowns. "Well I don't like the idea of you being alone today."

"I'll be fine," Peeta chuckles lightly before sipping his coffee and bending down to pet the dog who's appeared at his feet. Buttercup's trolling for scraps, but he seems happy to settle for a good scratch behind the ears too. Then Peeta looks to me, and I can't look away. His eyes send a familiar nervous warmth through me.

"I'm probably going to leave in about an hour or so. If you want to catch a ride."

It's as if Peeta knew that'd shut Prim up.

I'm sure her wide blue eyes are locked on me, and I try to feign my indifference, for appearances sake. Although even in front of Prim and Thom and everyone else, it's actually not difficult for me to accept Peeta's offer.

I shrug, popping a piece of bagel in my mouth and answering as I chew. "Okay, sure. Even you're better than Buttercup." I look pointedly at the loaf of a dog still at Peeta's feet, currently staring up at my plate like that will somehow make it magically fall to the floor.

Peeta smirks, but his eyes still brighten at my acceptance. "That sounds like progress, Everdeen."

***

Not surprisingly, after I agree to hitch a ride home with Peeta, Prim stops complaining about neither of us staying the afternoon. We're on the road by ten, and even with the mischievous look that Prim gives me as I hop up into Peeta's car, I still feel at ease as we pull away.

His car is comfortable. Even though it's expensive and big and absurdly nice, somehow it doesn't feel as pretentious as I expected it to. Maybe it has something to do with Peeta warning me that his car's a mess before I even get in, even though it's not, because all that's there is a gym bag claiming the back seat behind me. Or how he teases me to buckle up before he'll even turn the engine on, watching patiently as I settle in to his front seat. It could also have something to do with starting off the drive in surprisingly peaceful silence, listening to what I recognize as Haim's _Days are Gone_ album as we get on the road.

"I'm surprised you agreed to let me take you home," Peeta finally says, a few minutes after we've reached the highway. I turn, adjusting my stare from out the passenger side window onto him, watching him tap his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. He says it so matter of factly, like he'd been expecting me to pretend like absolutely nothing had changed between us.

Not that I blame him; I made him swear not to tell anyone that we'd made out like teenagers before we finally went to bed last night. It's not that I don't want anyone to know. I just want to know what it means before I'm forced to try and explain it to everyone else. And by everyone else, I really mean Prim, because she's going to freak out and start planning our wedding as soon as she hears we kissed.

"I'm surprised you like Haim," I say with a shrug, smiling when that gets him to look over to me.

"You know, you're funny when you want to be."

"And you're…sweet. When you want to be."

I have to swallow the lump in my throat that forms after he grins back at me. "Feel free to keep the compliments coming."

I roll my eyes, and then take it upon myself to lean over to his dashboard, getting antsy with the current song and changing it to " _The Wire._ " "Thanks for the ride," I say, leaning back into my seat as Peeta looks on, semi-amused with me taking over as DJ.

"So, do you think your sister suspects something's going on between us?" His question comes after a few beats of silence, and Peeta's back to focusing solely on the road again.

Inwardly I freeze, but outwardly I roll my eyes again. "No," I scoff. "Prim's been pushing you on me for months now. She has no idea what's really going on between us."

I don't realize what I'm really saying until I've said it. But the words hang in air—just there, in all of their potentially misunderstood glory. I can feel myself turning a tomato red, but of course, because he's Peeta, he knows exactly how to respond.

"Well then I think that makes three of us."

I laugh in relief, and watch Peeta smile to himself, with a small shake of his head.

And so we spend the rest of the way home making small talk. We discuss the weather—it's going to be a hundred degrees tomorrow. I find out that Peeta's a baseball fan, and that he really believes the 'Jays have a shot at making the playoffs this year. We talk a little music too, agreeing that the Black Keys' new album leaves something to be desired, and agreeing to disagree on 'NSync because Peeta confesses that he used to own their CDs in college so he could play them at house parties as a conversation starter with girls. But he laughs to the point where I laugh too when I joke that I'd have really hated him in college then.

We talk about any and everything but last night. I guess maybe because I can't bear the thought of verbalizing my thoughts on what I think about Peeta's lips, or hands, or his stupid crooked smile that he keeps shooting me, and probably also because Peeta's realized I'd stop drop and roll right out of this car if he tries to bring it up. Regardless, two hours alone in a car goes faster—and easier—than I thought they would.

Then, when Peeta pulls into the small parking lot behind my apartment building, he puts the car in park, idling his engine as neither of us is quick to move.

I surprise myself by being the first to speak, though. "So, you really have to work today?"

He looks a little embarrassed at my question, and drums his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, something I've noticed he has a tendency to do. "Just a little. For a few hours this afternoon."

There's a moment of silence between us that makes me shift in my seat uncomfortably when I don't know what else to say. Then, just as I start to make my move for the door handle, Peeta's voice stops me.

"There's, um, fireworks tonight. I have a pretty good view of them from my back yard."

I turn to face him slowly, an excited nervousness building in the pit of my stomach. I'm greeted by a shy smile and eyes that still won't quite meet mine. "I don't know if you have plans, or something, but um. If you. I mean, would you want—"

"Are you asking me over to watch fireworks with you?" I finally ask him, tilting my head expectantly with what's probably something that resembles a smirk. I can't help it. For someone who's usually so smooth, he's sure having a hard time asking me out.

It's the most charming I've ever found him.

Peeta's expression loses some of its nervousness as he stares at me, a smile spreading across his face.

"Yes. Any interest?"

His smile grows as mine does.

Because two hours in a car and last night wasn't enough. And I may not be able to say it out loud, but I know I want more. And besides, like this—sheepish and undeniably sweet—it feels impossible to say no.

"Yes."

Peeta's eyebrow quirks just slightly. "So it's a date then."

It's funny. Words like that coming out of Peeta's mouth would have annoyed me, even just a day or two ago. But now, they make me blush.

Because I actually have a date with Peeta Mellark.

 

***

_It's a date._

Peeta's words rattle around in my head as I finish getting ready. I try to drown them out, focusing on the small tasks at hand—getting dressed, choosing jewelry, applying makeup—but I'm not fooling anyone, including myself. I'm nervous.

And once I'm ready to go, twenty minutes early, I pace my tiny apartment, trying not to psych myself out. I'm wearing a simple sundress, which is an off-white color and a mix of lightweight cotton and lace. It flows freely to my knees and looks particularly good against my olive summer tan. And I've paired it with even simpler flat sandals and earrings, because I want to look nice but not like I'm trying too hard.

It's just a date. I've been on dates before. And okay, it's been a while since I've been on a real date, but seriously it's just Peeta. And it's just hanging out at his house. How is it even really any different than hanging out with him anywhere else? We've even done this before—he crashed Prim and Thom's house and we ate pizza and drank wine and everything was fine. And I've already danced with him, too. And recently, I've spent more time talking to him than I have anyone else.

And I've kissed him. A lot. For almost thirty minutes last night. So who am I really trying to kid here? Tonight's definitely different.

Peeta lives on the edge of Prim and Thom's neighborhood. And as the the GPS leads me up a winding, hilly road with perfectly landscaped yards and renovated houses on either side, all of which probably have amazing views from their backyards, I quickly realize that despite everything he said last night, Peeta's still definitely rich. I'm almost embarrassed I let him drop me off at my apartment two neighborhoods over now.

Though when I pull into his driveway—slowly, because I check three times to make sure it's the address he gave me, his house is more modest than I expected it to be. From the outside, it's not incredibly large, but it looks freshly painted a tasteful beige with red shutters and a large oak tree in the front yard. I slide out my tiny Civic slowly, exhaling deeply and clutching my purse and the six pack of beer I'd picked up on the drive over as I make my way up the few steps to his front door. He has a small front porch with room for a pair of Adirondack chairs, which just makes the house feel even more perfectly classic.

Peeta opens the door before I can ring the doorbell, catching me by surprise. He stands in front of me in slim fit jeans and a blue and white striped button up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms and the navy stripes bringing out the blue in his eyes. He looks happy, and relieved, to see me, as if he'd been worried I might not show. Which, by the way, is ridiculous, because it's five minutes before the time he'd told me to come over.

"Hey," he says, leaning against the door frame with a welcoming grin.

"Hi," I return, shifting my weight on the balls of my feet. I let my eyes sweep over him quickly before I shove the beer in his direction, holding it out to him like it's some sort of offering. Peeta takes it from me wordlessly as he lets me inside.

His house is beautiful. Not in the typical, _he's rich so he has nice things and an interior decorator_ type of way, but in a way that I can tell someone took a lot of time to renovate it and make it feel like home. The old craftsman style house has what must be a redone open floor plan, with clean sight lines, tasteful paint colors, and furniture that fits the space nicely. I let my eyes wander from focal point to focal point as I walk through the entryway and into his living space—a small sectional couch set in front a large television that hangs from the wall. A leather recliner that sits in a corner with a table and a lamp next to a book shelf that suggests a cozy reading area. Photos on a console table of friends and family. And a landscape painting that hangs on the far wall that compliments the room perfectly with its swirls of muted colors.

When I look back at him, he's watching me carefully.

"Hi," he says again, like it has a different meaning this time.

"Hi," I repeat back with a smile, deciding it's probably time to say something other than a monosyllabic greeting. "I like your house."

"You look really pretty." Our words come at the same time. And then we both laugh, and I can feel the nerves start to settle between us. I wonder if I should feel weirder, though, standing here in Peeta's house and admiring it while he feeds me generic compliments. But looking at him with that soft smile on his face, I don't feel weird at all. In fact, I feel strangely comfortable.

He nods his head toward the kitchen and I follow him into it.

"Are you hungry? I sort of…cooked."

Peeta's kitchen is spacious and gourmet with cherry cabinets and granite countertops, stainless steel appliances and large windows that allow the evening summer sun to stream into it. It's honestly something out of a cooking magazine, and I can't help but think of my pathetic little galley kitchen and the stove that has two non-working burners and not enough cabinet space for even my measly collection of dishes. Peeta must be able to read my thoughts on my face, because he looks sheepish as he turns back from putting the beer I brought in his side-by-side refrigerator.

"I know it's a little much. It's the one room that was already renovated when I bought the house." He twists the cap off one of the beers and slides it across the kitchen island to me, which I accept with an unoffended shake of my head.

"It's beautiful. And it seems like you put it to good use," I add, eyeing the spread of food on the counter behind him.

Peeta smiles, taking a small sip of the beer he's opened for himself and joining me at the island. "Sometimes I try. It's nothing fancy," he warns. "I ended up working longer than I thought I would. But after a weekend of hamburgers and hotdogs, I thought maybe something a little lighter might be nice."

"That sounds good," I agree, sipping my beer too. "But you didn't have to cook."

"I wanted to," he shrugs. Then he grins. "It's not a proper date without dinner."

***

We eat a meal of fish tacos with pineapple slaw and fruit salad right there in Peeta's kitchen before heading outside to the back deck for the fireworks display that Peeta claims will start just after nightfall. The deck's almost as impressive as his backyard, and it hangs over a wooded lot that drops off steeply and must back into the large creek that runs through the neighborhood. I can tell immediately that he wasn't lying—we'll have a great view of the fireworks that the city shoots off from the community park a mile down the road. And I jokingly ask him if he has any other secret talents, because his fish tacos are restaurant quality, as we settle down on the oversized patio chaise lounge chair that's more than big enough to fit the two of us. He moves over slightly to make room for me when I sit next to him, and neither of us flinch when my arm brushes up against his. His eyes gleam playfully as he shakes his head at me.

"I'm not telling you all of my secrets just yet."

Then he plays with his phone just long enough to make it start playing music, setting it down next to his half empty beer bottle on the small glass table next to him. Van Morrison's smoky voice filters through his speakers softly, and I lean back into the soft, thick cushions, tucking my legs underneath me.

"A true man of mystery," I tease.

"Unlike you, who's an open book." Peeta laughs as my eyes narrow. "But seriously. Tell me one thing about yourself I don't already know."

I look at him skeptically. That's a daunting range of information to cover.

"Just do it," he prods. "Then you can ask me anything you want." His expression is fearless when I raise an eyebrow at his offer. As if he has nothing to hide.

I sigh after a moment of contemplating what to share. "Okay, fine. My favorite color's green."

Peeta grins. "That's some deep stuff right there."

I shrug, but I smile too. "Your turn."

"My favorite color?" he asks incredulously, as if he can't quite believe that's how I'm using my question. But I nod, and he smiles before answering.

His favorite color's orange. But not safety cone orange, he's quick to point out. "It's more muted than that," he tells me, nodding up to the sky, which is currently streaked with reds and deep oranges and spots of navy blue with wisps of white clouds as the sun sinks below the horizon. And suddenly, I'm really glad I asked what his favorite color was, because I think I've learned more about him in that one answer than I have in a hundred other conversations.

"Can I ask you something more serious?" he says softly, after an appropriate amount of time spent admiring the summer sunset.

"Sure," I say, snorting at the poetic irony of the opening notes to " _Bad Moon Rising_ " streaming through Peeta's iPhone right now.

He hesitates briefly, and his eyes watch me cautiously as he asks his question.

"Why didn't you get married?"

Maybe I should have been expecting it; I suppose it's a pretty important question to someone like Peeta. But I'm still taken aback nonetheless.

"Sorry," he says immediately, probably seeing the stunned look on my face. "You don't have to—"

But I shake him off. "No. It's okay."

_Why didn't I get married?_ The simple answer is Madge. The honest answer is more complicated.

"We were young when we started dating," I begin, finding it hard to look Peeta in the eye as I talk about my relationship with Gale. "And getting married seemed like what you do after you've been together long enough that you're no longer yourself but a joint entity. Make it official, you know?" I look up enough to give Peeta a wry smile.

"But then, he…well, things…changed. And we, uh, didn't get married."

Peeta doesn't paint it as nicely. "He cheated on you."

I sigh. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a moment before responding. "That sucks."

I can't help but laugh and his matter of factness. And this is beyond weird—with CCR crooning about _ablowin'_ and _the end comin' soon_ , all while Peeta's looking at me like I might snap, or worse, cry. It's a little much for first date territory.

Though to be fair, this isn't exactly a normal first date.

"Look," I tell him, setting my jaw and squaring my shoulders. "It did suck. But I wasn't some perfect girlfriend or anything myself."

Peeta raises an eyebrow, as if to say _you don't say._

I narrow my eyes in frustration, but really, I still want to laugh. "Shut up. I'm spilling my guts to you at your request, remember?"

He chuckles, feigning innocence. "What? Go on."

"I don't know," I say, because it's hard for me to explain this to Peeta in a way that's fair, but still honest. "I just kind of always knew it wasn't…we didn't…" I shake my head, giving up. "I guess, at the end of the day, I'm better off for not marrying him. So at least it saved me from that."

"But it's about trust. It's the dishonesty." Peeta looks at me carefully, and as if he's deciding whether to finish his thought or not. I wait until he does. "Some of it's starting to make sense, is all."

I give him a confused look. "What?"

Peeta leans back against the chaise, adjusting one of the pillows behind him. "Your inherent distrust of me."

"Oh no," I tell him, shaking my head. "You don't get to blame anyone but yourself for that. You made me not trust you all on your own."

His eyes flicker with an entertained curiosity. "And how did I do that?"

I frown, afraid to really get into it. We've been doing so well so far. I don't want to ruin it. But at the same time, the reasons I've been skeptical of Peeta matter. And now's a good as time as any to talk about it. Besides, it's my turn right?

"How was I supposed to trust you when it so clearly seemed like I was just another girl? When you kissed me after spending the whole previous night flirting with someone else? And when you did it clearly just to make a point? How am I supposed to be okay with that?"

I can feel myself getting more upset with him as I speak, remembering all the reasons he could be a really, really, big mistake.

But Peeta doesn't respond right away, instead just watching me with blue eyes that almost make the hard-pressed frown of my lips falter.

"Are you going to answer my question?" I finally huff, hating the way he's still looking at me like it's all some big secret I still haven't been let in on.

His lips quirk. "Which one? I think you asked me, like, six questions."

Fair point. But it's still annoying, because I can't ask the question I really want to ask. At least not without sounding like a jealous idiot.

Peeta chuckles when I can't figure out what to say, and it's like he's reading my mind. He scratches the hair at the back of his neck, stretching his legs out in front of him as he sighs. "The night of the rehearsal dinner. I spent most of the night trying to figure out a way to get you to talk to me. But you were really, really intent on blowing me off."

This is true. I was incredibly annoyed with Peeta that night. I don't even really remember why—except that he'd made a stupid joke about us walking down the aisle together at the church when we'd rehearsed, or maybe because he'd just in general been so nonchalant about the whole thing, laughing and joking with everyone on a night where I thought Prim and Thom and their wedding should have been taken more seriously. Regardless, he's right to think I had no interest in talking to him.

"And then after dinner. We all got drinks at the hotel bar. And other than the fact that I ordered Delly a water—at Thom's request, by the way—because she'd gotten pretty drunk and he was worried she'd be in bad shape for the wedding the next day, I cannot for the life of me figure out why you think something happened between us."

I stop watching the way his eyes shine as he talks, ignoring the way the corners of his mouth upturn as my brow furrows at his explanation and look down into my hands instead.

"She knew your room number."

"What?" Peeta asks incredulously, and the confusion in his voice seems genuine.

"When I brought you the rings before the ceremony. She's the one who knew which room you were in."

"Well you were the one who warned me that she was a stalker."

He sighs when I don't look amused at his answer. "Why do you insist on jumping to conclusions about me? I had absolutely no interest in Delly, Katniss. I didn't mean to flirt with her, so I'm sorry if that's what you thought I was doing. And I certainly didn't sleep with her, okay? Because if you must know, there was only one bridesmaid I was trying to sleep with at that wedding."

My jaw drops in simultaneous shock and disgust.

Peeta narrows his eyes like he's memorizing me. "That look," he tells me, his lips quirking upward. "I love that look on you. It's like you're so beside yourself because you want to hate me. But you can't."

"Oh, I can hate you all right," I mutter, finding the need to look down and away.

"No you can't." I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "In fact, you _like_ me."

My scowl deepens despite—no, _because of_ —the heat washing over my face. "Do they teach ridiculous overconfidence at millionaire school? Or were you just born with that?"

His grin only spreads at my narrowed eyes. "It's okay for you to like me, you know. I like you too."

I ignore the part of me that believes his confession, in favor of pointing out how ridiculous it sounds.

"So is that what you do when you like someone? You just tease and annoy them until you wear them down?"

"Yes," Peeta nods, solemnly. "That's my move. And it works like a charm, every time."

I sigh and adjust my position from facing toward him in the oversized chair to lean against the soft back of it. I stare out into his backyard—well really, the overhang of trees and the river below, because his backyard is something akin to a state park—but I know Peeta's eyes are still watching me.

"Katniss," he says, and it's like I can hear his grin. "Have you ever stopped to think that I'm not the only one who teases and annoys?"

I roll my eyes at him, like that somehow means he's wrong. Even though I know he's right. I give just as much as I take. Actually, I may even have taken the lead on setting the tone for our interactions.

I think back to the first time I met Peeta. We'd been at Prim and Thom's—well, at the time it was just Thom's—house, before they'd gotten engaged. In fact, I was the one who was engaged at the time. And while I don't remember exactly when it had been, I do remember having been in an argument with Gale that day. And he hadn't come with me that night, even though he was supposed to. Thom and Prim had invited quite a few people over, but it had mostly been other couples. Peeta had come alone though, too. And that night, he was a blank slate to me.

Objectively, I'd thought he was handsome at first sight. Even now, I remember being taken aback by his blue eyes, which were crystal blue against the light blue dress shirt he'd worn, tucked neatly into his trim gray slacks, looking like he'd come straight from work. Which made sense, even at the time, because it had been a Friday night. But I also eventually learned that Peeta logged even longer hours than Thom, and it wasn't unusual for him to show up dressed for work even on Saturday evenings too.

The first time we spoke, Prim had asked me to grab a new bottle of wine from the kitchen—too busy entertaining her coupled off friends in the dining room—and I hadn't complained because it gave me an excuse to sneak away and send an angry text back to Gale. He'd just told me he was going out for drinks with his younger brother Rory, and I had wanted to tell him that that was funny since I'd thought he'd been _too exhausted from work to do anything tonight._ This had obviously been before I'd known that drinks with Rory really meant alone time with Madge.

So when I'd reached the kitchen, already pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I'd almost literally bumped into Peeta, who was also on his phone. Except it seemed like he'd been doing work, his face full of serious concentration before showing his surprise when I'd pulled up short to keep from having to slam my hands into his chest. I'd been surprised too—but also slightly annoyed, because who just stands in a doorway blocking everyone's path?

He'd apologized immediately though, looking sheepish as he put his phone away.

"You're Katniss, right? Prim's sister?"

And then I did what I always do. I reacted defensively.

"How'd you know? Our similar features?"

But he'd just smiled at me. And I remember thinking he had a great smile. It had made me push the smallest, briefest, fluttering in my chest all the way down somewhere deep in my gut where I thought it couldn't affect me. As if I could bury any natural, instinctual attraction to him with rational thoughts and a standoffish attitude.

And he'd laughed it off congenially when I'd brushed past him for the wine rack in the corner, beginning to eye the vast collection of bottles as an inner panic set in, because how was I going to know which one to bring back? I knew some of them were probably very expensive, and what if I accidentally uncorked some prized vintage when all Prim had asked me to do was open up a twelve dollar bottle?

"Not exactly. Prim mentioned having a sister who wears her hair in a braid and likes to wear red shirts. So. Deductive reasoning, you know?" His voice had grown nearer as he'd approached until he'd ended up at my side, eying the wine rack with me.

I'd glanced down instinctively at my blouse, sighing at its redness.

He'd chuckled again. "I'm just kidding. She didn't tell me any of that. It was just a lucky guess."

My eyes jumped up to his then, caught off guard by the softness of his voice, as if he were almost whispering in my ear. He'd grinned when he had my attention. "I'm Peeta, by the way."

I too, had used my deductive reasoning skills to figure out the blond haired, blue eyed guy with a nice smile and his nose buried in his phone was most likely Thom's best friend and business partner, but I didn't let Peeta know that. In fact, I didn't let him know anything at all, except that I clearly had no clue what I was doing in front of a wine selection that included at least 40 bottles, some of which probably cost more than my rent.

"Thom's pretty pretentious with his wine, right?" And at that, I'd watched him bend down to pick out a bottle of red with ease. "This is the same one they already had open," he'd explained, busying himself with retrieving a corkscrew from a kitchen drawer and going to town on opening the bottle.

And I remember feeling relieved and grateful, because even though it was just a small favor, it meant not having to look stupid in front of all of Prim and Thom's friends. Then, when he'd handed me the now open, correctly selected bottle of wine, I'd been unable to stop myself from smiling back at him.

"Well what do you know, she's even prettier when she's not scowling."

And he'd just laughed when I gave him the most pointed, over-exaggerated, and well-deserved scowl I'd ever given in my life.

And then I'd stalked out of the kitchen without so much as a thank you.

I've been sure to keep him at a distance ever since.

I realize now that my reaction had probably been a little harsh. On some level, I'm sure it's because I didn't know what else to do with an all too charming guy who'd been nice to me and called me pretty. Especially at the time, when I'd been dealing with an already problematic relationship and the last thing I'd needed was letting some other man give me butterflies.

And on another level, it had been a really bad, corny line.

So. Maybe it's true I'd helped to set the tone to whatever you want to call our relationship over the past couple of years. But it's not like Peeta hasn't enjoyed trying to piss me off in ways that he knows only he can.

He nods slightly, like he recognizes and approves of the guilt that reads on my face because I've realized I'm not entirely innocent here.

"Do you even know how intimidating you are?" There's a perk to his lips as he speaks, but his voice sounds tired. The sun's fallen all the way behind the trees, and the only light comes from the gas light lanterns spaced out around Peeta's deck, save for a few stars peeking through the early night sky. But even without the best lighting, I still see the perplexed look that crosses Peeta's face. And I swear it's as if Peeta's made a specific playlist for this conversation rather than turned on a radio station, because now Otis Redding's You Send Me plays on his phone.

"Katniss, sometimes it's impossible to know what to say to you. When I met you, you were engaged. And I couldn't rectify my brain with my heart, because all I wanted to do was be around you, even though I knew that was wrong. And maybe I overcompensated, because it was okay if everything felt like a joke. But then…you weren't engaged any more, and I felt so guilty, because secretly, I was glad. But it turns out it just made everything worse because it was like you had even less interest in me after that. And to be honest, I have no idea how to compete with that history. Or with a guy who is very good looking, and very intense, and _very_ tall, by the way."

I consider what he's saying slowly, because otherwise it's overwhelming. It's never crossed my mind that anything about me, or my past, could be intimidating for Peeta. He's always seemed immune to intimidation. Just like I'd been immune to his charm. But I'm pretty sure he's telling me he's liked me for a while now, and well, that makes absolutely no sense.

I purse my lips, still in thought, and Peeta shakes his head and sighs.

"Go ahead. Don't believe me. You never believe me."

It's not exactly a fair accusation against me though. How was I supposed to know he wanted me to take him seriously—either as a romantic prospect, or even a real person, when he'd always been my sister's husband's rich best friend who'd been the butt of one too many of Prim's anti-commitment jokes and liked to annoy me just to see my scowl?

"I didn't know I was supposed to," I tell him simply, ignoring the booming noise of a few home-launched fireworks going off in the near distance, like an opening act for the real show.

Peeta frowns. "Well it's the truth. You're tough, and you're stubborn as hell, and you refuse to give an inch. But you're also funny, and you're loyal, and you're kind, at least when you think someone deserves it. And it's impossible to figure you out. Which can be fun, but not when I want to know everything about you and I can't. And god, you have these eyes, and this look—I don't know. It's just. Sometimes I forget to breathe when I see you."

Peeta's expression is nervous and earnest, and he shakes his head softly to stop me when I open up my mouth to protest. "Katniss. Tell me that this—whatever this is—doesn't feel different to you."

It's felt different since he kissed me the first time at Prim's wedding. Maybe even before that. It's felt so different that I know it hasn't so much been about not trusting Peeta, but more about not trusting myself. My heart's still healing from its last tragedy; I didn't think I'd ever be ready to give it away to someone else. Especially when that someone else is Peeta, whose voice and words and touch and everything about him scares me. Because I'm falling. Harder than I ever have, and that isn't me.

It's not real life. I'm not the girl who falls into a whirlwind romance complete with dances to _The Way You Look Tonight_ and beach trips and fancy cars and nice houses.

No. I'm the girl who almost married a man because I'd been with him so long I didn't know what else to do. And at the time, it had felt like the safe choice.

Though look where that got me.

Peeta looks at me like I need to say something now. And I probably do, but all of the words that come to mind get stuck in the back of my throat. The words about him being arrogant and confident, and so charming that sometimes I think it can't possibly be genuine. But that he's also a great friend, and admirable, and hard working. And he's smart, and funny to a point where I laugh even when I don't want to. And speaking of eyes—his are so blue and so clear that a lot of times when he looks at me—like right now—I honestly can't speak.

But don't actions speak louder than words?

So screw words. He's probably going to understand exactly what I'm trying to say if I just lean in and kiss him instead.

I kiss him so hard the beginning of the fireworks display barely registers with me. All I care about is his mouth, which welcomes mine with warmth and hunger, and his hands, which quickly find themselves roaming the curves of my body.

And from the moment I start kissing him, I know I'm not going to be the first to stop.

"Katniss," Peeta murmurs, a few minutes later, his voice strangled and hot against the skin of my exposed shoulder where his lips are currently pressed. I pause my own kisses along the hollow of his throat, sighing in his signature sweet, clean scent. "Inside?"

I nod. Just like that. It's almost too simple, too easy. But for the first time in a really long time, absolutely everything feels right. And absolutely everything about Peeta Mellark feels good.

Peeta's eyes are somehow lazy yet urgent, taking in my small, yet sure smile before he grabs my hand, pulling me off the chair and kissing me the whole way back into his house, where we leave everything—the music, the drinks, the fireworks—behind.

It's a dizzy, clumsy trip to his bedroom, and when I bump against the wall of his hallway, we use it to our advantage. He moves his hips against mine, pinning me while I work on the buttons of his shirt. Our lips only separate for gasps of air, and as his hand slips nimbly between my legs, he jerks into me when I moan at his touch.

My hands find their way beneath his undershirt, and I run my fingers around his strong, broad chest until they dig into his back and I pull him flush against me with a need that even surprises me. Peeta's eyes blink open, a dark intensity overtaking them, and his hand moves against me until the pressure of his touch causes me to throw my head back with a soft thud.

His name falls off my lips in a whisper, but it's really a desperate kind of plea.

We fall into the clean, neat sheets of his big bed shortly after that. And our actions are hasty but deliberate—our touches and movements conveying an urgency that also somehow feels measured. And careful. Because I can tell that while Peeta's sure of what he's doing, he's also unsure of me. As if he can't quite believe I'm letting him unclasp my bra or helping him push out of his boxer briefs. And while I'd like to be cautious of what we're doing, it doesn't stop me from recklessly running my hands through his hair or rolling my hips up to meet his.

Peeta kisses me all over—my mouth, my neck, my collarbone, as he positions himself above me. Then he pulls back, staring at me with sincere eyes until I take him in my hand, helping to guide him. I watch his eyes flutter closed and his lips part just slightly as he begins to fill me whole, until I screw my eyes shut at the sensation myself. And I sigh a deep breath of unexpected relief as he pushes into me.

It only takes a few moments to fall into an easy, perfect rhythm, and the only thoughts I'm capable of having are how warm Peeta's lips are on my skin and how sturdy and strong and undeniably good he feels. More than good even—because the way he combines tentative kisses with the steady, assertive way he moves inside me causes me to fall apart underneath him after just a few thrusts.

I catch the glint in his eye when I do, as if he's telling me we're just getting started. Which is fine by me, because so much of me wants this— _him_ —just like this, all of the time.

***

But afterwards, after our breathing has regulated and my heart rate returns to normal, we lie there, quiet and careful, in his bed. Peeta's hand rests gently on my hipbone, and I try to relax into his comfortable pillows and expensive sheets. But as my body rests, my mind begins to race.

It's not that I outwardly panic or anything. It's more like I just can't shut my brain off. Because I know what we've just done is going to change everything forever. And it feels _big_. Bigger than anything I've ever felt. And that's what's so terrifying. How am I supposed to explain to anyone—let alone myself—that I think something real is happening between me and Peeta Mellark?

The fear and the uncertainty and the seriousness of it all is crushing. I can't help but think that we've just gone too far, way too fast.

So when I hear the rhythm of Peeta's breathing steady, glancing over to see his eyes closed with the soft rise and fall of his chest, I think maybe he's fallen asleep.

And I make my move.

I can be stealthy when I want to be, and I carefully slide out from under Peeta's hand, trying not to disturb him. Though I guess either I'm not as good as I think I am, or he was never asleep in the first place, because my attempted escape doesn't go unnoticed.

"Katniss," he mumbles sleepily, just as I've rolled to the edge of his large bed, searching for my clothes with a hand on the floor. "Stay."

A part of me is tempted to listen to him. To just roll over, snuggle back against his warm bare skin and listen to his lazy, content breathing until we both actually fall asleep.

More of me is petrified of actually wanting that.

"I have to go," I whisper, afraid to look at him and the disappointment I might find on his face. I blame early mornings for both of us, the need for me to be at the recreation center early and the fact that Peeta has an important presentation tomorrow. But Peeta knows better.

He frowns as he throws on a pair of athletic shorts as I slip on my dress. And he follows me out of the bedroom and through his house where I gather my shoes and my purse. "Can I at least…call you?"

I pause, freezing in the middle of working a sandal onto my foot. "Yes. Of course." I breathe the words out as if he didn't have to ask.

Peeta nods slowly, running a hand through his hair. He looks crestfallen. "This isn't…you're not? Just, please. You should stay."

"Peeta," I say so softly I can barely hear my own voice. "I have to go. But I'm not…running away. I promise."

He sighs. "Even if you do. I'll still be here." The small, accepting smile he gives me almost breaks my heart.

I nod, and finish putting on my shoes before stepping into him and gently kissing him on the cheek.

"Goodnight, Peeta."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you for reading this little story that gives me so much joy to write. I really and truly can't thank you all enough. Also, I've had a tumblr name change. I'm no longer at c-r-roberts. Come find me at hashtagpeeta instead, if you'd like. I promise it's fun over there. ;) (And seriously, how was that url still available?)_


	6. Chapter 6

"Well, you look like hell. Too much fun this weekend?"

I look up from my phone I've been staring at for the past two minutes, too exhausted to do much else but sigh at Finnick as he slides into the seat across from me.

It's Tuesday. And it's just hours after I practically ran screaming from Peeta's, lamely claiming the need for a good night's sleep. That plan had backfired, by the way. I barely slept at all last night. But when Finnick asked to grab lunch during our respective breaks from work, I couldn't say no. First of all, I want to hear how his date with Annie went. And even though I'd prefer to crawl into a ball and hideout by myself right now, it's not terrible to have a friend to talk to either.

Especially one who's willing to call it like he sees it.

I put my phone away, officially ignoring the text message that appeared as I sat down in the sandwich shop waiting for Finnick.

_Peeta [12:12 P.M.] I hope you're having a good day._

Such a simple, generic text. Sweet, thoughtful, and harmless. And everything about it just makes me feel even guiltier.

"Something like that," I finally answer, scrunching my nose when Finnick attempts to prod further with a curious eyebrow raise.

I shake my head, forcing a smile, which ends up coming easier than I thought it would when I see the way Finnick seems to be glowing. And it's not just from spending the morning in the hot sun, teaching ten year olds how to backstroke. _Someone's had a good weekend._ "Tell me about your date first."

I can't help but feel a little better, listening to Finnick talk about Annie. It's adorable, the way she's practically turned him into a lovesick teenager—he's actually gushing. They went to dinner at an upscale seafood restaurant on Saturday. They saw a movie on Sunday. And then she cooked him dinner that night. He must talk for over five minutes straight, but basically, the gist of it seems to be that they haven't stopped hanging out until just this morning.

I begin to relax, easing into the familiarity of meeting Finnick for lunch, something that's become a weekly routine this summer. It's a good break from the sun for Finnick, and for me, it's a welcome escape from the gaggle of five to sixteen year olds I help keep occupied during their day camp experience at the YMCA.

"So when's the wedding?" I joke, after a waitress comes and I order a turkey club and Finnick, predictably, orders a tuna fish sandwich.

Finnick chuckles, but the twinkle in his green eyes as he shakes his head is telling. "Don't worry, you'll be the second to know."

I grin.

"So. Your turn. What's new with you?"

I stop grinning. "Nothing," I tell him, the guilt creeping back in as I sip my water and refuse to look back up at him.

"That kind of sounds like the opposite of nothing."

My non-grin becomes a full-fledged scowl, and Finnick's inquiring eyes are unrelenting. But if there's one person on earth that I feel safe sharing this information with, it's Finnick. And I'm about to burst.

"I slept with Peeta," I mumble, hiding my face behind my hands.

"Excuse me, what?"

"You heard me," I groan.

"I know that I heard you, I just don't… _believe_ you."

I peek out from behind my hands so I can glare at Finnick. It's kind of hard to glare at someone who's grinning like an idiot though.

"What? I knew you'd figure out you liked him sooner or later. I was just expecting it to be later, not sooner. So tell me, was it hot and steamy lake house sex? On the bunk beds? A pull out sofa?"

"Finnick, stop," I moan, starting to regret my decision to open up to him.

"But there are so many possibilities I haven't guessed yet. A deserted dock, for example. Ooh, or a porch swing."

"Never mind," I say, shaking my head, refusing to look up at him. My face is flushed, and I'm stuck somewhere between anger and embarrassment. "You know," I accuse, "I didn't ask you about all the different positions you used on Annie or anything."

Finnick shakes his head. "Irrelevant question anyway. No moves yet. We're taking it slow," he smirks. And even though I hate him right now, there's still something endearing about the way he seems happy about this. "Unlike you, who's on the fast track to marriage. Or well, kids at least."

"Finnick!"

He chuckles, but softens at my exasperation. Then he sips his water slowly, studying me. I narrow my eyes under his gaze. "Talk to me. Seriously."

I sigh. And then I give in. "Last night. He um, asked me over to watch fireworks."

"Classic move," Finnick nods.

I roll my eyes at him and sigh again. "And it just sort of…happened."

Which isn't exactly true. It didn't happen by accident, or for no good reason. But I don't feel comfortable telling Finnick all of the things Peeta confessed to me. And if I did, it would probably just prompt more questions I don't want to answer.

"Okay, I'm confused. What exactly is the problem here? It sounds like you had a nice date, and you both clearly like one another. Right?" His green eyes focus on me expectantly, waiting for me to confirm.

"Right," I murmur, less than convincingly. Because while Finnick thinks maybe it's that simple, or that it should be that simple, of course it's not.

"So?" he prompts.

The waitress shows up with our sandwiches, and I let her serve us, both of us thanking her quietly as she puts our plates down and tops off our waters. I wait until she's gone before answering Finnick. My face screws up as I do.

"I, um. Kinda…bolted. Afterward."

"You bolted," Finnick repeats slowly, as if he's trying to comprehend.

I pull the toothpick from one of my sections of sandwich, twirling it between my thumb and index finger, concentrating on the movement so I don't have to look anywhere else. "Yeah. I just, left. He asked me to stay. But I couldn't."

"You couldn't."

"It all happened so fast, okay?" I blurt out. "He said a lot of things to me. And I feel guilty and awful now because I think I upset him and I didn't mean to. I just have no idea what I'm doing, and I couldn't stay. I don't even know why, I just…needed to leave, in that moment. And now he's sending me texts and I don't know what to say, or what to do next, and you're the only one who even knows about this right now."

"Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa," Finnick says, a tuna sandwich in one hand while he holds up his other.

"One crazy rambling thought at a time, please." He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "First of all, as a guy, I can almost definitively say Peeta's not mad at you. Especially if he's texting you. What did he say?"

I feel even more rotten when I show Finnick my phone, slinking back into my seat with defeat as he views the screen.

Finnick just chuckles. "You really need to calm down. You're completely overreacting."

I bite into my lunch with a skeptical look.

"Look, you want to see him again, right? So respond with something simple. And then invite him out somewhere. It doesn't even have to be just the two of you. It could be like a group thing." I watch warily as the figurative light bulb goes off above Finnick's head. "A happy hour. Everyone loves happy hour. They're…happy." He grins when I roll my eyes. "Seriously, this could work. How about Thursday? I can bring Annie. And invite your sister and Thom."

It's not a terrible idea, actually. It _would_ be nice to see Finnick and Annie together. And it would also solve my problem of how to respond to Peeta's message, which I otherwise have no idea how to do.

"Happy hour where?" I ask through a mouthful of bread and turkey and cheese.

Finnick smiles, looking pleased. "The Seam," he suggests. "Casual, good beer, centrally located. It'll be a good old time."

I swallow, wiping my hands on my napkin before reaching my phone.

_Katniss [12:35 P.M.] Hey, Finnick mentioned a happy hour on Thursday at The Seam. I was going to invite Prim and Thom too. Any interest? FYI I think Finnick wants to gloat about Annie to you._

I show what I've typed to Finnick for his approval with a cocked eyebrow. "Happy?"

Finnick nods. And grins. "Very. I can't wait to see this."

"Well don't expect much of a show," I mutter, a rush of nerves filling me as I hit the send button. "I'm not telling Prim. And I don't want her to know."

"You're not going to tell her anything?" The smile and warmth on Finnick's face disappears and he looks annoyed with me.

The feeling's starting to be mutual, because quite frankly, I've shared enough of my business that's none of his. "No."

"Are you kidding? What are you going to do, just pretend like it didn't happen?"

I haven't figured that part out yet. But the solution isn't telling Prim. She'll just overreact, with screechy declarations of _how she just knew it_ , and _how perfect this is_ , and it's all a bunch of things that I know I'm not ready to deal with.

My silence answers Finnick's question for him, and he shakes his head at me. "Katniss, what's the big deal if people know? You already told me. And you already admitted that you like him. Are you ashamed or something? Are you— _oh_." He pauses, and then his face looks like he's just solved a riddle. "I get it."

My eyes narrow at whatever realization Finnick seems to think he's having. "Get what?"

"If you tell Prim, it's real. That's what you're doing right now. If no one knows you slept with Peeta, then you don't have to figure out your feelings for him. Well, news flash, Katniss. Your feelings? They're not going to go away. Regardless of who knows about them."

I'm scowling so hard my cheeks hurt, and an anger and an overwhelming sense of hurt are bubbling up in my chest. And I'm about to exclaim how wrong Finnick is and that it's really just about Prim making a scene when it's all interrupted by the buzz of my phone vibrating against the table. I know who it is without even having to look down. But when I do, I sigh.

_Peeta [12:39 P.M.] I'm in. And I don't know what he has to gloat about, I got the better end of that trade._

Suddenly, it's impossible to feel anything other than shame. Here I am, moaning about Prim finding out about him, and here Peeta is, being consistently sweet and funny and _nice_ to me, even after the stunt I pulled last night.

"Good news. Peeta's in for Thursday."

Finnick raises his brow pointedly, popping two fries into his mouth. "So Peeta's in. Are you?"

Even though I might not like it, it's entirely possible that Finnick has a point. But it's not about figuring out what I want. I _know_ what I want. It's about being brave enough to say it out loud.

***

Prim picks me up after work on Thursday. I see her grinning even as I walk to her car, and I shake my head as I slide into the front seat. "Stop," I warn with a pointed look as she looks me up and down.

"What?" she shrugs innocently, jerking the car into gear. "You look pretty. I like that dress."

I'm just wearing a simple, light-weight, sun dress. It's green, with a modest hem, thicker straps, and a scoop neck. Prim's got on a flouncy, floral dress with straps that crisscross over her back, so really, I'm under dressed in comparison. But the color does look pretty great against my skin, and I may have possibly spent an extra ten minutes in the women's locker room re-braiding my hair over my shoulder and swiping on more make up than I'd ever wear to work.

"You're giving me a look like you think this means something it doesn't."

"Katniss, I didn't even say anything," Prim sighs.

"Right, but I know what you're thinking."

"And what's that?" she asks, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow as she pulls out of the YMCA's parking lot. Her little Infiniti Q50 slides into rush hour traffic easily, and I realize I've just walked myself into a corner. I press my lips together with a short shake of my head. "Never mind. You should cut down Thirteenth Street and take Hover Road. It's faster at this time of day."

"I know how to drive, thank you." But she takes my advice and gets into the turning lane anyway. I smirk, relaxing into my seat, grateful for the cool air of the air conditioning blowing on me. We're in the middle of a heat wave, and today's temperature topped 90 degrees for the third straight day. It was so hot this afternoon that by policy, we were forced to keep the kids inside as a precaution. It also meant that I dealt with 25 cranky preteens, since watching movies and playing checkers isn't really how they want to spend summer camp.

"So. Thom says Peeta's coming tonight. I guess that means you didn't kill him on your drive back together."

Is that code for _Peeta blabbed everything and I secretly know you slept with him so the jig is up?_ Is she goading me? What's the angle? Prim tucks her straight blonde hair neatly behind her ear, all eyes on the road as she makes her turn, and for once, it's impossible to read her.

"Yeah," I say casually. "I invited him."

Prim nods, like it's no big deal, and I frown. My admission to asking Peeta to happy hour should be making her squeal, considering how hard she's been pushing us lately, and her blasé attitude only makes me think she's hiding something. "I'm glad you two are starting to play nice," is all she says.

"He's not always…terrible," I respond carefully.

"In Katniss speak, that almost sounds like you like him." A small smile plays on her lips, but she still speaks so unaffectedly, so matter-of-factly, and so un-Prim likethat I end up more confused than anything else. Then she sighs. "But I've been told it's none of my business, so I'll leave you alone now."

"What does _that_ mean?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head, pursing her lips together for a long pause. "Look, if you like Peeta, great. If he likes you too, even better. But if the two of you want to go on not liking each other, or pretending to not like each other, then that's also supposed to be fine by me."

I suppress a snort. It's all starting to make some sense to me—and it sounds like someone's been warned to back off. This is infinitely better news than Prim somehow knowing what happened three nights ago, and I appreciate Thom for it, but I almost have to laugh at the irony of the timing. Because honestly, Prim's picked the worst time in the world to attempt to restrain herself.

"Well," I say, biting back a smile and turning to look out the window so Prim can't see even that, "Thank you. For trusting me to form my own opinions."

"Anyway," Prim continues. "I should warn you though. I invited Delly."

And for as much as Prim is trying to contain her true feelings, I'm terrible at doing the same. And I groan. Audibly. Loud enough to be heard over the upbeat synthetic beats of of Taylor Swift's latest single playing from Prim's speakers.

"I'm sorry! But she's my friend, and that new boyfriend she was so excited about didn't exactly pan out—"

"Go figure."

Prim shoots me a look. "And I felt bad, okay?"

"Well I hope you also feel bad when she spends the night trying to punch me in the face with her eyes."

"Katniss, that's ridiculous."

"I know, I can totally take her eyes."

And then Prim grins. An entirely Prim-like grin. "You know, in Katniss speak, that sounds like you _really_ like him."

"And I guess this is exactly what 'I'll leave you alone' means in Prim speak?"

Prim just laughs at me.

***

The rest of us are on our second drinks when Peeta arrives. It's already almost seven, and I'm talking with Thom, Finnick, and Annie at our table near the bar, telling them about the project I've taken on at the YMCA two weekends from now. Finnick asked about it, since he knows the Y is planning on doing some small renovations this summer. It's really just reorganizing some storage closets and hopefully replacing some equipment, but Thom expresses interest when I mention repainting the gym and the play room because he thinks it sounds like a good cause and that maybe his company could help.

"It's not much, just a few Ikea cabinets and some fresh coats of paint," I explain, trying to disguise the way my whole body tenses when I feel Peeta's presence behind me. "But the building hasn't seen a renovation since the 1980s, so I think it'll make a difference."

"Well I don't think I know anyone who can help you with that."

He slides onto the open bar stool next to me casually, and I swallow my sip of beer slowly, the liquid trickling down my throat. I let myself steal a glance at him, and it's a big mistake because he looks unbelievably perfect in a dress shirt and work slacks, his tie loosened at the collar and his sleeves rolled up to almost his elbows. And then I'm involuntarily thinking about how I know what he looks like beneath his clothes, and suddenly remembering how good he felt pressed up against me, and how his hands explored practically every inch of my skin. It's also impossible not to wonder what he's thinking right now, and whether it's anything as impure as the thoughts currently fogging my brain.

In other words, maybe this was a terrible idea after all.

"That's what I was just telling her," Thom says, sharing a look with Peeta, and it's as if they're making some sort of implicit business decision right then and there. I catch a glimpse of Finnick's amused expression, who presses his beer bottle to his lips in an attempt to contain his grin. Clearly, Finnick hasn't been distracted by charitable donation opportunities to miss the way I've suddenly sat up straighter or am currently fiddling with the end of my braid. I drop my hair, but it just makes him shake his head at me.

"And hey, good to see you made it before the bar closed," Thom chides him playfully, before disappearing to buy the next round.

"Yeah well someone has to make sure we're still in the black," Peeta returns to Thom's back, and I have to smile because it's not like Thom got here that long ago himself. Then Peeta turns to me, and his eyes land on me so easily and warmly and without any hard feelings that I feel a knot of guilt forming in the pit of my stomach.

"Hey," I say, trying to greet him as casually as he'd appeared beside me. It's two seconds before he responds, two seconds of silent communication—an exchange of looks that asks, and then confirms, that we are, in fact, completely and totally pretending like absolutely nothing has changed between us.

"What's up, Everdeen?"

I am one hundred percent sure that Finnick rolls his eyes even though I don't see him do it.

"Don't worry, you haven't missed much. Just Finnick complaining about how hot it is outside," I assure Peeta while simultaneously shooting an eye roll of my own Finnick's way.

"Excuse me, do _you_ sit in the sun for seven hours a day?" Finnick responds before nodding in Peeta's direction. "Hey, Peeta. Good to see you again."

Annie explains for Peeta's benefit that Finnick lifeguards in the summers, and I bite back my smile as I watch Peeta's face blanch at the thought. Then Thom returns with beers for everyone, and I attempt to act as normal and relaxed as possible while conveying as many _I didn't sleep with the guy sitting next to me_ vibes as I can until Prim and Delly return from the bathroom a few minutes later.

I only jerk slightly when his hand squeezes the top of my knee underneath the table as Peeta sees them approaching, turning to give him an apologetic look in response. _I'm sorry. I didn't know your stalker would be here._ Peeta lets out a breath, letting his hand linger an extra couple of seconds before shaking his head and taking a deep sip of his beer.

"Peeta, you made it!" Prim announces when the two of them reach the table, her eyes darting between his and mine. I watch Delly toss her blonde curls over her shoulder as Prim hugs Peeta hello, and I feel a tug in my chest when Delly follows suit, because it's not like she's greeted anyone else with a hug. And my irrationality doesn't end there, because when she seats herself on the other side of Peeta and bats her overly-mascaraed eyelashes while engaging him in conversation, I have to fight the overwhelming urge to attempt to punch Delly with _my_ eyes.

At least I'm sane enough to recognize that I'm having the emotional thoughts of a crazy person, and I decide to remove myself from within ear shot of someone currently discussing the merits of Tinder. Seriously, _Tinder_ : the online dating phone application for the lazy and creepy. Apparently, Delly just joined and she thinks Peeta should too, because she's already made _like, five matches in under a week._ I stand up, probably abruptly, clutching my beer and muttering something about playing some music. Because a conversation this ridiculous surely deserves to be drowned out in whatever way possible.

The Seam has an old juke box—not one of those updated digital ones that you can even play from your phone—and I've flipped to the section that includes a bunch of 90's rock albums when Finnick sidles up next to me. He silently watches me peruse song choices for a moment before he speaks up.

"Come on. Are you really going to leave that man hanging in what looks like the most uncomfortable and awkward conversation of all time?"

"I think I'm good here," I deadpan, not bothering to look up, trying to decide between something off Green Day's _Dookie_ album or one of many inappropriate Sublime songs.

"Katniss, I think she just pet him," Finnick tells me through clenched teeth.

I snort. _Of course she did._ Then I impulsively choose _"Basket Case,"_ sliding two of my four quarters into the slot and quickly punching in the song's numbers before I turn around to see what Finnick's talking about. Billie Joe begins singing immediately, and Finnick chuckles at my pick.

It doesn't take more than a glance his way to see what Finnick's talking about. Peeta could use some help. His eyes catch mine from over Delly's shoulder, and his eyebrows practically touch his hairline. I have to put my hand to my mouth to disguise my amusement, because Delly's obliviously leaning into him, and sure enough, her hand's still on his arm.

"You weren't kidding," I murmur. Finnick looks at me pointedly. It's a look that says _do something about this or I'm going to be disappointed in you._ And, as I also watch Peeta struggle to smile at Delly, it's a look that speaks to me. Because I know that if I don't do something to save Peeta, I'm also going to be disappointed in myself.

So this is it then. My time to be brave and speak up. Because Finnick's right--I can't leave Peeta hanging. I sigh, handing my remaining quarters over to Finnick. "Here. Play something good."

He smiles. "Atta girl."

Then I make my way back over to the group, feeling Peeta's gaze on me as I stop first at the other end of the table, grabbing Prim's elbow and rudely interrupting the conversation she's having with Annie in order to hiss something in her ear.

"Please don't make a big deal over what's about to happen, all right?"

"What?" she asks, looking truly confused, and also a little annoyed that I'm being so impolite. But right now is not the time to worry about manners. My heart begins to beat faster, anticipating what I'm about to do.

"Just try and remember that whole _'it's none of my business speech'_ you just gave me, okay?"

All I receive is another puzzled look in response. But I'm too busy heading back to my seat and Peeta to explain any further. Besides, who am I kidding? It's probably a useless request anyway.

I place a hand on the middle of Peeta's back once I reach him, and his eyes snap to mine at the touch. "Hey," I say, like it's no big deal that I'm showing an outright sign of affection, even though it's clear neither of us is sure what I'm doing. "Do you, um, think we have time for one more before dinner?"

His reaction is nothing short of wide-eyed surprise. I almost want to laugh. But instead, I repeat myself, more slowly, feeling the full heat of Delly's stare, but only focusing on Peeta, who I can tell is trying to figure me out. "Do you want another drink? Or do you think we should get going? I don't want to miss our reservation. Capitol Grille can be kind of prickly if you're late."

The lines of his face relax in understanding, and his lips curl upwards into a small smile while he simultaneously raises an eyebrow. "What time is our reservation again?"

"Eight," I lie. And now it's more than just glares from Delly—who's physically recoiled from Peeta—because Thom's looking at me like I have two heads, and Finnick seems happy as a clam as he returns to the group.

And Prim does exactly what I asked her not to do.

" _What_ did you just say?" she screeches.

I shrug like it's no big deal and even take the time to sip my beer before answering. "We're going out to dinner tonight."

Her pretty little head looks like it's about to explode from confusion and excitement. "Like a _date_?"

"Yes like a date," I confirm, feeling surprisingly calm and collected about the whole thing. I decide it's really not so bad, if everyone knows I like Peeta. In fact, it feels kind of good.

But then my song ends, and the song I let Finnick choose begins to play, and I immediately want to take back thinking _this isn't so bad_ , especially after looking up to see Finnick's manically grinning face. He's played _"She Loves You"_ by the Beatles, which means that John, Paul, George and Ringo are currently crooning over and over that _"she loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah."_

My face is surely beet red, and the only reason I don't send a long, continuous death glare to DJ Evil is because I see Annie hit him the arm, shaking her head apologetically at me.

Thom bursts out laughing. I can see a hundred questions begin to form on Prim's lips. And Peeta turns to me, checking his watch.

"It's 7:30 now. We probably have enough time for one more," he shrugs, a smirk ghosting his lips when he probably sees a whole new level of panic in my eyes. "But just to be safe, we should probably get going."

I breathe a sigh of relief. It's one thing to publicly declare that I like Peeta and that we're...possibly dating. It would be a whole other thing to sit here answering questions about _how_ and _why_ we're…possibly dating. Peeta slides off his stool, not even bothering to finish his beer. I, however, tip mine back to drain its contents because the Beatles are still basically proclaiming that I love Peeta at the tops of their lungs.

Prim stares at me, dumbfounded when I reach for my purse. I can tell she's not upset with me, at least not really. More just surprised that she really didn't know.

"Hey," I say softly, giving her a quick hug goodbye. "You were right, you know," I whisper quickly as I do. "I really like him."

Then I pull back, smiling at her wide blue eyes. "And I'll call you later."

***

Outside, the heat of the evening summer sun hits me almost as hard as the realization of what I've just done.

"So…Capitol Grille, huh?" Peeta asks, walking side by side with me.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, stopping my steps in the middle of the sidewalk.

I get a quizzical look and a chuckle in response. "It's fine, I like Capitol Grille."

"No," I say, shaking my head and needing him to shut up about the stupid restaurant so I can spit out these words before I lose my nerve to say them at all. "I'm sorry about the other night. And I'm sorry I left. At least without being honest with you about why I did."

Peeta's face goes slack, the amusement he'd been wearing turning into something else more serious. He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up a hand to stop him. It's my turn to talk now.

"I like you, okay? I like you so much that I don't know what to do with it. And it scares me. So I'm sorry."

"Katniss," he breathes, "You have nothing to be sorry for."

I take note that we're standing smack dab in the middle of Panem's uptown district, and that for someone who didn't want anyone to know, I'm certainly finding incredibly public ways to keep declaring to Peeta Mellark that I like him.

I shake my head. "You deserved to know that. But I'm terrible at this stuff, and you're not, and—"

"Katniss, you scare the _hell_ out of me."

I stop, mid-sentence, Peeta's exasperated statement hanging between us for a moment while I process it.

And it's weird, because I know that there are people walking past us on the sidewalk, and that they're probably staring, or even eavesdropping as they pass. But neither of us seem to care, and all of it really only registers as background noise.

"You're not the only one with commitment issues, okay?" he finally sighs. "And you're also not the only one who doesn't know what to do here, Katniss. I have _no_ idea what I'm doing."

The serious gaze of his blue eyes search mine for some sort of answer. I shrug helplessly. I'm certainly not the person to ask.

But then I think that maybe that's our answer. That it's okay to _not_ have an answer.

"Maybe we don't have to know what we're doing then," I offer. "Maybe," I say, daring to take a step closer, close enough that Peeta dips his chin down into me and I can feel the exhale of his breath on my lips. "Maybe half the fun is figuring it out together."

"That sounds like a good idea," he murmurs, and my eyes flutter closed as he kisses me softly. His lips feel light against mine—a soft, simple kiss. But it's enough to make me want more.

So much more.

"You make me stupidly happy, you know that right?" Peeta tells me with a smile as we begin to walk toward where I assume he's parked his car.

"You say that now," I start, teasingly, "but you don't—"

"—But nothing," he cuts me off definitively. "It's that simple. It's taken me a long time to realize it, but at the end of the day, being happy is all that matters. And you're it for me."

Peeta shrugs his shoulders, like it's just a fact of life and no big deal for him to tell me this. I understand what he's saying, to an extent, because I'm also beginning to realize it really _is_ that simple. But it's not as easy for me to say it back. And I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I do.

"You make me happy too," I whisper.

And Peeta's face softens, a boyish grin crossing his face. "Yeah?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yeah," I repeat, louder, and I feel myself grinning too.

"Good," Peeta nods, sliding his hand into mine. I tighten my grip around his fingers, and it feels good. Like it fits, like it belongs in his.

"You know what else would make me happy right now?" I ask him as we turn a corner and approach the public parking garage.

"What's that?"

"Take out."

"Your place or mine?" Peeta says, not missing a beat. "And before you answer, please keep in mind that I have a 65 inch television and multiple premium cable subscriptions."

I smirk. "You're making me happier by the minute, Peeta Mellark."

***

For the second time this week, I end up at Peeta's house. This time, we eat Thai take out straight from the cartons in front of Peeta's humungous television while watching a newly released nondescript movie on HBO. We don't really pay much attention to it, because there's pad Thai and cashew chicken and a bottle of white wine, and we talk through half of it anyway. And when we're done eating, I curl up next to him, and he lets me rest my head on his chest while I let him put his arm around me. But the movie can't keep either of us interested enough, and within minutes, it's Peeta's lips, and his hands, and the underlying heat beneath all of it that I'm paying attention to.

And all of it feels familiar, because by now I've learned that Peeta likes to capture my bottom lip between his when we kiss, and he seems to realize that there's a certain spot behind my ear that responds to his lips even more than the rest of me. And when we make our way to his bedroom, there's no bumping into walls or unsure steps because we've been here before. And I'm certain I want to be here now. Every inch of me is certain—my skin that ignites at his touch, my mouth that can't keep to itself, my brain that's no longer panicking at the thought of falling for some too-charming rich guy who seems too good to be true. And most importantly, my heart, which is finally ready to let him in.

And so unlike last time, after Peeta makes me murmur his name into the crook of his neck, and after I make him groan when I roll my hips down onto his, and after we collapse together in a heap between the tangled sheets of his bed, nothing can pry me away from him. This time, nothing stops me from feeling the rise and fall of his chest pressed against my back as his breathing regulates, or from snuggling further into him with a contended sigh when Peeta's arms drape around my waist like they're afraid to let go.

Although Peeta has nothing to worry about. Because this time, I stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you for reading-I've loved writing this story so, so much. And just a quick note: we're nearing the end and this was the penultimate chapter. (!!) (Okay, I've also got an epilogue planned. :) ) Oh, and if you're interested, I'm at hashtagpeeta over on tumblr._


	7. Chapter 7

"I don't understand why someone is trying to woo you with paint, but I like him already."

I'm standing with Chaff, the general manager of the YMCA, in the middle of the gym. Chaff's a middle-aged man who's a little rough around the edges, but he has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I've ever met. He's basically the human equivalent to a grumpy teddy bear. And right now, he's staring at me from over his gas station coffee cup, scratching his bald head.

It's early, just after seven in the morning, and I've just arrived. And I have to put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing at the sight before us.

A _lot_ of paint cans seem to have arrived overnight. That's not all there is, either. There are also supplies, like brushes and rollers and plastic drop cloths. And a full corner of the gym has a bunch of boxes, which I suspect contain those Ikea shelving and storage units I'd talked about a couple of weeks ago. Then there's the entire pile of new sports equipment. Fifteen basketballs, at least twenty new soccer balls, a whole bag full of baseballs and softballs. Bats and helmets. Bases, cones, and nets. It's a ridiculous display of every single thing I'd mentioned the YMCA was trying to improve or replace this summer.

"I told him we could use a few cans of paint," I mutter, shaking my head. "Were you even going to paint anything other than the gym and playroom?" I ask Chaff. There must be at least twenty gallons of paint, stacked neatly next to the bags of soccer balls.

"We're going to paint every damn surface I can find now," Chaff shrugs.

We have the ability to do it too, because when Peeta insisted on his company donating supplies to help out the YMCA's mini renovation project, I'd insisted on making it an event for the kids. I'd pitched it to Chaff as built-in manpower, and he'd readily agreed. And when I brought it up to the kids last week, surprisingly, a lot of them had willingly volunteered to give up their Saturday to spend it re-painting cinder-block walls. But all of this means that we're expecting 25 teenagers, a few friends, and a couple of professional painters—whose assistance Peeta had also procured—to be here in less than an hour.

"Okay, first things first," Chaff says, setting his coffee down on the gym floor. "Help me move the sports equipment into the back office. If the kids see this stuff now, they'll be useless."

***

When Peeta arrives a little bit later, we have a discussion about him going overboard. It's the first thing I do when I notice his car pulling into the lot. I meet him outside, so no one can see me telling the person who just donated thousands of dollars to the YMCA that it was too much. He can barely get the car door open before I'm shaking my head at him.

"Are you crazy?"

He laughs at me, removing his sunglasses and putting them in the storage compartment above his dashboard.

"Good morning to you too," he says, getting out of his car and wrapping an arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple. I reluctantly let this happen, because I haven't seen him all week and I crave his proximity, even if I think he might be certifiable.

"First of all, it's not too much," he tells me more seriously, watching me flip my braid over my shoulder when he pulls back. "It's not even close to enough. And second of all, it's not like it's even coming out of my own pocket, exactly—it's good business. So stop looking at me like I'm Mother Theresa or something."

I sigh, rolling my eyes at him.

"That's better," he grins, shutting his door and locking his car with the press of his key fob and a set of beeps. "Besides," Peeta says, eyeing the signage on the front of the building as I walk him back inside. "Didn't I tell you about the sponsorship we're getting in exchange? _Panem YMCA: brought to you by M &M Painting Co."_

"That's not funny," I say. Though it doesn't stop either of us from laughing.

An hour later, the YMCA is bustling. There are kids mingling loudly—much too loudly for eight in the morning on a Saturday—and other staff members are groggily pouring coffee and picking over the donut and bagel spread I'd stopped for on my way over. Three young, college-aged guys—our professional help—are in the corner, shifting on the balls of their feet and looking anxious to get to work. And Peeta, who's standing next to me on the sidelines, is taking it all in with me.

"So, you really don't think anyone will mind if I take some liberty with that back wall in the playroom?"

I snort into my coffee cup, keeping it at my lips as I speak. "After everything you've already done, I'm pretty sure you could knock the wall down and Chaff would still be okay with it."

Chaff had thanked Peeta quickly when I'd introduced them, but his gratitude was obvious. Chaff told him we'd put the supplies and equipment to good use, and said that he was planning on putting Peeta to good use today, too, if that was all right with him. Peeta had laughed, and that's when he suggested painting something on one of the playroom's walls. Chaff had raised his eyebrow, but had given him the go ahead, going so far as to say that it sounded like a good idea. Which is high praise, coming from Chaff. I'd given Peeta a funny look, wondering what he had up his sleeve, but whatever it is, he's keeping it quiet for now.

Peeta looks around the room, and I watch as he does, his eyes landing on the large group of teens before turning back to me. "Do you think any of these guys want to help me? I may need a few extra sets of hands."

"Absolutely," I nod, because I'd already planned on giving him Jacob, a fifteen-year-old who likes to draw, and Martin, a seventeen-year-old who may prefer spray cans to paint brushes but has serious talent regardless. I tell Peeta this right before I call the two boys over to introduce them, and he gives me a smile as they approach.

"I think I can work with that."

Then I decide it's time to get this show on the road, and I officially start breaking everyone up into teams. As soon as I separate from Peeta to ask Cecilia, another part-time staffer if she'd be willing to head up the gym painting group, I have three girls at my side.

"Hey Ms. E., who's your hot friend?"

I arch my brow at Maddy, who's staring up at me with round chocolate eyes and a smile only a boy-crazed teenage girl can achieve. Her friends, Lucy and Kate, flank her silently at her side, more than happy to let Maddy do the talking.

"Wanna try that one again, Maddy?" I ask her as I hear Cecilia snort behind me, witnessing the standoff I've just entered with an upcoming high school freshman.

Maddy rolls her eyes at me, following up her inappropriate question with another one. "He's your boyfriend, isn't he?"

Kate giggles behind her, and I sigh. If I haven't discussed my relationship status with Peeta himself, I'm certainly not about to do so with a group of hormonally charged girls.

"His name is Mr. Mellark," is all I say. I'm not sure how a fourteen-year-old girl manages to give me a look that tells me she thinks I'm full of shit, but Maddy accomplishes this before craning her neck back in Peeta's direction, just in time to see him walking away.

"Where's he going?"

I smile.

"He's painting the playroom today," I tell them, shrugging my shoulders indifferently. "Why? Do you guys want to help him out?"

Just as I expect, three faces light up at my suggestion. And I hope Peeta doesn't end up hating me for this, but I have a sneaking suspicion that these girls will hang on his every word. And maybe they'll even do something other than giggle with each other in the corner, too. "You have to promise to listen to him," I warn, pointing my index finger and my _I'm not messing around_ look at Maddy. "He's as much your boss as I'm your boss, got it?"

They nod eagerly.

"Good," I nod back. "But I'm not kidding—one word about you bugging him and you'll be stuck building shelves with me all day instead."

There. If that threat doesn't get them to behave, I don't know what will.

I watch the girls scurry down the hall after Martin, Jacob, and Peeta, and then I turn back to Cecilia, who's smirking at me.

"What?" I ask with narrowed eyes.

"If Mr. Mellark's not your boyfriend, can I go spend the day in the playroom with him too?" Her smirk widens at my less than amused expression. "Oh come on. Maddy's right, he's hot."

My mouth hangs open, and I have no idea what to say.

"Relax," Cecilia laughs, her face softening when she realizes she's thrown me. "I was just trying to say he seems like a good catch. But you may want to warn him about Maddy. You know she can be a little much."

Now I'm the one smirking.

"Oh, I think he'll be just fine."

***

It's a long day, to say the least. I spend more time fighting plywood furniture pieces and cursing tiny little screws than I ever wanted to, and my fingers hurt and my back aches from all of the assembling I do on the gym's floor. And while myself, Chaff, and a few of the kids spend our day becoming masters of cheap yet tasteful Swedish design, we watch the gym's walls get painted all around us. It's actually pretty gratifying, to see the fresh coats of paint go up as we build new storage units that will help house all of the new equipment that's sitting in the back room, waiting for it. But by five o'clock, I'm exhausted.

Luckily, the YMCA's pretty much cleared out by then. The kids left around four-thirty, and no one ended up covered in paint, so we successfully avoided a splatter paint war from breaking out on two fronts. I'm loading bases and basketballs onto shelves that Chaff and I installed in the storage room when Chaff tells me he's headed out too.

"I think I'm going to get going. Think you can handle locking up for me?"

"Of course," I say, huffing as I strain to put a stack of bases on a higher shelf. Chaff helps push them in place for me, and then shakes his head.

"Don't stay too much longer, though. You've done enough." I nod, just about ready to call it a day myself, after I get the last few bags of equipment organized.

"And maybe go check on your friend," he adds. "He's still hard at work in that room, and I'm worried he's inhaled too many fumes, because he's talking like he actually enjoyed himself today."

I laugh and assure Chaff I'll make sure Peeta's okay. He nods, satisfied. "Good."

I haven't even seen Peeta since lunch, when we'd all broke for the turkey and ham subs Chaff ordered in. I'd laughed at the amount of paint he had on his hands already, and he'd asked why a fourteen-year-old girl had felt the need to ask him how many girlfriends he's had.

"It's a valid question," I'd joked between bites of sandwich and a split bag of pretzels. But when I'd asked if he needed extra help, Peeta insisted the kids really weren't giving him any trouble. He even defended Maddy when I offered to take her away and make her screw in bolts until her fingers bled, and assured me things were under control and actually going pretty smoothly.

I have to assume the rest of the day went just as smoothly for him. And after ten more minutes of closet organizing, I make my way down to the playroom. I guess I don't know what I'm expecting to see when I get there. Definitely not a mural that looks like it's been professionally painted. But that's what's there, on the playroom's back wall, visible from the hallway as I approach. It's a landscape, with a sun hanging low in the sky, setting over an open field. The sky's a swirling mix of dusky colors, streaks of white and blue and an underlying muted orange that radiates warmth. I recognize the rolling green hills in the background, as well as the field in the foreground, filled with bright yellow dandelions. It's the city park, the one that's just a few minutes down the road from Peeta's house. This particular rendition of it has just enough of a cartoonish feel to be kid-friendly, but even in my adult eyes—my incredibly skeptical adult eyes—it's still breathtaking.

I stare, watching Peeta touch something up in the lower left-hand corner, until he must realize I'm behind him, because he speaks without even turning around. "So what do you think?"

"It's…beautiful," I murmur, stepping further into the room, looking at him in disbelief when he spins to face me. He smiles shyly at my expression and shrugs, crouching down to wipe the paint clean off his brush against the can.

"I uh, wanted to be an art major in college. I even had a scholarship for it. But my mom, she wanted me to study business. And so I did."

I feel my eyes narrowing, studying him closely, wondering how I never knew about this part of Peeta Mellark. It's a welcome reminder that I still have a lot to learn.

My eyes drift back to the mural, and Peeta chuckles, still sounding a little unsure. "Obviously, that turned out okay. But, um, thanks for letting me indulge my inner artist."

And then it clicks. The painting company. He's this successful businessman to the world, but really, all he probably ever wanted to do was paint. It's a nod to his inner artist.

I'm glad that at least today, he gets to be both.

"You should do this kind of stuff more often," I tell him softly, taking my gaze away from his painting in order to focus back on him. His plain t-shirt and athletic shorts are both smeared in random places with spots of blue and white and green, and his eyes are happy when they drift up to me. He finishes with the paintbrush, putting it down on the plastic sheet carefully.

"Slave labor?" he asks, sliding on to the old wooden floor to take a seat, leaning back on his paint-stained hands.

I snort and slide down next to him. "I meant paint. Like this."

"Yeah. I know what you meant. But I don't exactly have a lot of time for hobbies."

"Well, thank you for taking the time to do this," I say, hearing an unexpected crack to my voice. "It's really wonderful. The kids are going to love it."

There's a moment where neither Peeta nor I say anything, and we just look up at the mural from out spots on the floor. It's quiet, with all of the kids gone. There's no screeching or laughing or yelling, like the day had been otherwise filled with, and now, it's just the hum of the old central air system in the background.

"They love you too, you know," Peeta finally says. "The kids. They're crazy about you."

"I don't know about that," I respond, making a face and thinking of the days when they all seem to hate me, or at least my ability to wield authority over them. And then there are the days when they're so crazy and amped up that it feels like I can't control anything they do. And that's not even considering the twelve-year-olds I teach nine months out of the year who are pretty much apathetic to everything but getting to cut things open and the solubility experiment Finnick came up with that involves dissolving sugar cubes in different liquids.

"I'm not kidding," Peeta says, shaking his head. "It's nice to see your softer side. You care, Katniss." He grins at me, quirking an eyebrow high above his clear blue eyes. "That's a good thing, in case you weren't sure."

I roll my eyes at him, but I know what he means. I know I care; it's impossible _not_ to care. In some small way, each and every kid I deal with reminds me of Prim. Especially these YMCA kids, who are often underprivileged and whose parents either can't, or won't, devote as much time to them as they deserve. It's a large part of why I do what I do.

"I, um, spent a lot of time as a teenager taking care of Prim," I tell him, scrunching my nose at the way the words get caught in my throat. I'm really not used to telling people stuff like this. "My mom—she kind of checked out for a while when my dad died. And well, someone had to make sure she was okay."

Peeta smiles softly at me. "Well, I think it's safe to say Prim turned out better than okay. And so now here you are, making sure the rest of the kids in town are all okay too?"

"If by _okay_ you mean making sure they don't hurt themselves playing basketball or slicing their fingers off with scalpels, then sure."

"Ah, see, you joke, but you just told me something personal about yourself. Intentionally, too." Peeta reaches to put his hand over mine, slipping his paint-splattered fingers between my cramped, over-worked ones. "I like when you open up to me," he tells me. "It makes me feel like you trust me or something."

"I'm starting to," I admit with a good-natured wary glance, though the inherent warmth in Peeta's eyes staring back at mine assures me that I trust him whole-heartedly. "But I guess it's kind of hard not to like a millionaire who can paint and cook and donates his time and money to help disadvantaged children."

"Don't forget my excellent taste in music," he points out solemnly, though his face breaks out into a grin when I duck my head and laugh.

"You know better than to trust me though, right?" I ask, looking back to him as I do with a knowing smile. "Because I'm a mess."

"You are pretty skittish," he agrees, his eyes narrowing and his grip tightening on my hand. "But I think I trust you anyway. Despite your tendency to doubt everything, including yourself."

I like that Peeta's able to see through me and call it like it is. And I like that he seems so at ease with knowing that none of this is going to come easily. And I like that it feels okay for this to be a work in progress. For both of us. I shift my weight and bump his shoulder lightly with my own. "And despite that overwhelming fear of commitment you claim to have?"

"Despite that too," he chuckles with a nod. "Although I don't know if I'm all that afraid of it these days."

"Me either," I breathe.

I don't know if my lips find his or the other way around. All I know is that we kiss, and even sitting on the floor in the middle of a children's playroom, surrounded by drop-clothed toys and cans of paint, everything about it feels right. And everything about Peeta, now more than ever, feels real.

Peeta lifts his hands to cradle my face, and he continues to press light kisses against my lips for a few more moments before he stills against me, breaking the kiss with a sigh. "Katniss, what are we doing here?"

He's right. I know he's right, because even though the YMCA's closed and no one else is in the building, and even though his kisses are good enough to almost let me think it's acceptable, we really shouldn't be doing this here.

"Sorry," I smile sheepishly, lifting my hands from his chest, where they somehow ended up without me even thinking about it, and placing them back in my lap. "We should probably clean the last of this up and get going."

Peeta chuckles, shaking his head. "That's not exactly what I'm talking about." His blond lashes press together twice as he blinks before opening his mouth to continue. "I…want to be with you. All of the time. Katniss, I want to kiss you whenever I feel like it. And I want to know that this…that this could end up being something serious one day. I'm not saying any time soon—I'm not in a rush. But I want to be with you, totally with you, one hundred percent."

I consider him slowly, the air filling up in my lungs, and I realize I'm holding my breath. His blue eyes watch me, following my hand as I reach out to wipe a smudge of paint that somehow ended up at his hairline, just above his temple.

"Okay," I exhale. "I'll allow it." I feel so warm and content that the words just sort of slip out. Not that I have a reason to hold them back anyway.

"You'll allow it?" he repeats, his lips quirking into a lopsided half-smile.

"Yeah," I say, swiping my thumb across his forehead to get the last of the white paint stuck there. "I'll allow us to be together. One hundred percent."

***

One hundred percent means a lot of things. It means Peeta introducing me as his girlfriend every chance he gets. It means Prim gloating about how right she was for the first ten times we're in her presence as a couple. It means me not responding with something smart because she _was_ right, and there's nothing left to fight her on.

And it means that sometimes Peeta swings by school during my free period just to say hi because he's pulling another eight hours at the office and won't be home until I'm fast asleep. It means occasionally going to his office and bringing a packed dinner for the two of us to eat at his desk just so we can spend an hour together. Then there are the weeks I don't see him at all, either because of travel or insane work schedules, and that's when it means late night phone calls and goofy Face-time sessions that typically end with Peeta saying something that makes me blush.

One hundred percent with Peeta also means excitement. It means going places I'd never imagined I'd go. Weekend getaways to places other than lake houses—although we go there too—trips to cabins in the mountains, and visits to cities crowded with sky-scrapers and people on the streets. It means going to baseball games and dinners and concerts. In August, it means going to the Cage the Elephant and Black Keys concert when Peeta scores great tickets even though we both end up exhausted and hung over at work the next morning. What it really means is enjoying life, and enjoying Peeta, whether it's by watching him grumble about getting on Tom's boat or hearing him sing off key to _Aberdeen._

And it means understanding. It means Peeta letting me wallow alone in my apartment and giving me space on the weekend in October when Gale and Madge get married. Because even though I don't care, I still _care_ , and the only person I even consider letting past my door is Prim, and that's because she brings ice cream. And wine. And it means Peeta admits to me lying in bed late one night that he's never had a serious girlfriend before and he worries that he won't be a good enough boyfriend. Which means me rolling over on my side and planting reassuring kisses along his jaw line until he understands how absurd he sounds.

And it means commitment. It means family. His, and mine. And becoming each other's. I meet his parents when we travel to his childhood home two hours away at Thanksgiving. Peeta has to warn me that his mother will probably try to make me feel uncomfortable, and that while his father's nice enough, he won't stop her from making snide comments to both of us. At least this is what Peeta thinks will happen, because he's never actually brought anyone home with him before. It doesn't go as poorly as imagined, and I shut Mrs. Mellark up pretty quickly when, after two glasses of wine at dinner and her asking me why I'm with her son, I tell her that there's a lot more to him than his wealth and that I probably wouldn't have been so reluctant to date him in the first place if he hadn't been so rich. Peeta looks at me like I'm equal parts crazy and some sort of savior, and his dad actually laughs, declaring I'm a keeper before bringing out a perfectly baked apple pie.

We also, naturally, hang out with Prim and Tom a lot. There are plenty of double dates, and Sunday night dinners, and even walks in the park with that dog of theirs. Sometimes I think Prim's happier about me being with Peeta than even I am, and she goes through a phase of repeatedly declaring that Peeta and I need to get married as soon as possible so we can have babies and our kids can be best friends. Though this happens right around Christmas time, and it correlates directly with Prim announcing her pregnancy, so I try to keep my eye-rolling at her to minimum.

One hundred percent also means having serious discussions with Peeta, especially on nights like the one when Prim tells us she's pregnant. It means still having reservations about children being a part of my life plan, and it means Peeta telling me he's okay with that, with such sincerity and acceptance that I feel relieved and guilty all at once. Because I can also see in his eyes that it would also mean something missing from _his_ life plan. And I don't want to deprive him of anything. In fact, I'm learning that I think I want to give him everything.

But most of all, one hundred percent means overwhelming happiness. Security. Contentment. It's waking up in Peeta's bed—our bed, officially that January—on lazy Sunday mornings with cups of coffee and reading the news or a book until inevitably current events get boring and all of a sudden his hands are in my hair and my mouth can't get enough of his. It means memorizing every inch of him. How he sleeps with the window open, even if just a crack, and even in the dead of winter. That he does it because the fresh air and the outside noise helps him sleep. That his favorite food is eggplant, which makes me laugh because no one actually likes eggplant that much. How I'm faster than he is when we go on runs, although he claims this is just because he prefers the view this way. How sucking gently on his neck will always cause him to make a noise from somewhere deep in his throat, and how the left side of his torso is ticklish but not the right. It means him making me laugh all the time, even when I want to be mad at him. It means pushing one another in different ways. And helping each other. It means there's teasing, and sometimes fighting, and constant learning. It's us growing. As people, as a couple. Together.

***

By the time Finnick and Annie's wedding rolls around that following June, it also means our lives have changed a lot. At this time last year, I was cursing Peeta's existence. This year, he's become my permanent wedding date.

The wedding takes place in Annie's hometown, a small beachfront community that's a plane ride away and that we treat like a mini-vacation. Prim and Thom attend too, as do half of Peeta and Thom's employees as well as quite a few people from school. The ceremony is being held on the beach, though the reception is happening in a ballroom on a pier that juts out into the ocean.

It's the first wedding we attend as a couple. Back at the hotel, Peeta jokingly asks me if he was supposed to match his tie to my dress. I laugh, watching him tighten the knot of his satin gray tie. Which, by the way, looks great with his white shirt and light gray suit, and it doesn't clash against the pale coral color of my dress either. I tell him that the only time you have to worry about that is when you're _in_ the wedding.

Peeta turns from his reflection in the mirror to grin at me. "Or when you're the bride and groom?"

"Or that," I agree with a smile before telling him to hurry up because we need to meet Prim and Thom in the lobby in five minutes.

Twenty minutes later, we're seated on the beach and waiting for the ceremony to begin. The sun is bright, and the breeze is warm. Prim sits on my left and is fanning herself with her program when she snorts as I pull my sunglasses from my purse. "You're going to need to wear those permanently, because that thing is _blinding."_

I make it a point to roll my eyes before sliding my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I also instinctively look down at my hand, unable to contain a smile. Prim's just being dramatic—my ring really isn't _that_ big. To me, it's perfect, a simple round solitaire on a plain band. Though I haven't gotten used to wearing it yet, and it still feels heavy and foreign on my finger.

When I look back up, Prim's smiling knowingly at me. There are also a few beads of sweat on her hairline and she's still trying to fan herself. "Are you okay here?" I ask with a frown, because for as beautiful as the bright sun and brilliant blue skies against the bleach white sand and rolling ocean waves are for a wedding, they're not exactly conducive for someone who's eight months pregnant.

"Katniss, you have no idea how content I am right now," she says, relaxing back into her seat and blinking her eyes closed blissfully.

"Seriously, she's fine," Thom leans across his wife to assure me I have nothing to worry about. "She's been so full of energy these past couple of weeks, I'm surprised she's not turning cartwheels up and down the beach."

It's Prim's turn to roll her eyes at her husband, but I grin, because there's only one other thing in the world that's sure to make me as instantly content as knowing that Prim's happy.

And I turn my head in the other direction to look at him, seated in the flimsy white chair next to me.

"No beaches," he declares when he catches my attention, shaking his head as my eyebrow arches above my sunglasses. "I want to be able to wear shoes at my wedding."

I laugh, looking down at his feet, naked and pale and sticking out from the hems of his suit pants, his shoes and socks left somewhere near the boardwalk behind us, with the rest of everyone's footwear.

"Deal," I agree, digging my own toes in the warm sand.

A solo violinist begins to play, signaling the ceremony is about to begin, and Peeta smiles a smile that's warm and happy and with just the right amount of mischief. "This is going to be fun," he says under his breath. I smile back at him, slipping my hand into his.

"I know."

***

Annie makes for a stunning bride. Her dress is simple, an elegant fit and flare in an off-white lace, and it looks just as good in the ballroom as it does on the beach. Finnick looks as handsome, and as happy, as ever in a simple navy suit that offsets the green of his eyes and his copper hair. They're truly a picture-perfect couple, and it's impossible not to notice the way their love for one another radiates between them. It's also impossible not to be happy for them. Even when Peeta and I end up cornered at the bar by assistant principal Abernathy. Although I call him Haymitch when the kids aren't around. He's a grumpy, middle-aged man with scraggily hair, a paunchy waistline, and he's wearing a terrible brown suit while currently exacerbating what I suspect is at least a minor drinking problem. But his bark is worse than his bite. I'm surprised he made the trek for the wedding, because he's not particularly friendly with anyone at school, but it doesn't stop him from spending a good part of the cocktail hour questioning me about my love life.

Well, really, it's probably just that Haymitch doesn't have many other familiar faces here. He's at least met Peeta before, because I've brought him around the school a few times, and Peeta greets Haymitch like an old friend. And then orders two scotches on the rocks from the bartender after asking what he's drinking. Haymitch seems impressed by this, and I'm pretty sure he likes Peeta more than he likes me. Not that that's saying much.

Haymitch rattles his fresh drink in his hand, narrowing his eyes at me but directing his question at Peeta. "So how'd you get her to agree to marry you anyway? She doesn't exactly come across as the marrying type."

I have no idea what he means by that, and I don't bother taking offense, because it's just Haymitch being Haymitch. Not that I would even have time to be offended anyway, because Peeta laughs, shrugging and sipping his drink before offering a straight-faced explanation.

"I just knew I had to propose in a way where she couldn't say no. So I did it publicly, at a 'Jays' game. Did you know it only costs $150 to rent the jumbo-tron?"

I roll my eyes. That's probably an accurate estimate too, because I wouldn't put it past Peeta to know how much it costs to propose to someone on a ballpark's scoreboard.

Haymitch cackles, appreciating the joke more than I do. Even just thinking about public spectacles like that gives me hives.

Peeta just shrugs again, flicking his eyebrows at me. "It was that or putting the ring in Jell-O."

"He did it on the back deck," I sigh, knowing this could go on for a while otherwise. "Last Saturday night. After we spent the day doing yard work. We were about to eat dinner, had ordered pizza, and I was wearing a t-shirt and a ripped pair of jeans. It was all very romantic."

I say all of this nonchalantly, sipping from the local beer Finnick told me I'd have to try, which is surprisingly good. I know I'm acting flippant in front of Haymitch, but my heart pounds a little harder against my chest even just talking about it. Peeta's proposal came unexpectedly, though I think that had been part of his plan—to catch me off guard. It had also been simple, with no big speech or eloquent declarations of love. Just him, on his knee, with a ring, unnecessarily nervous blue eyes looking up at me, and a question. A question I'm pretty sure I didn't even let him finish asking before I blurted out my answer.

I smile at Peeta, watching his expression become amused at the way I retell the story. Then I turn back to Haymitch, who, strangely, is wearing half of a smile too. "It was pretty perfect."

Peeta and I get our fair share of questions from other people too, as we eat dinner at a table with Prim and Thom and a group of people from the painting company. Though we don't really have much information for anyone, since it's all so new and we don't have a date or any ideas, other than knowing it won't be another beach wedding and that Peeta wants to wear shoes. Finnick even gives us a shout out himself, when he thanks everyone for coming after the toasts are finished. I catch his eye before he speaks too, and his grin makes me cringe because it means he's up to something. And sure enough, after he thanks everyone for coming and raises his glass to the family and friends who were kind enough share in this day, he tells everyone he has one last toast to give.

"I'd also like to give a special thanks to our friends, Katniss and Peeta, because without them, I'd have never met Annie."

All eyes turn to us, and I'm mortified at the attention and what might come out of Finnick's mouth next, so I stare down at my plate, swallowing my bite of food with a hard gulp. Meanwhile, Peeta just chuckles.

"I'm not sure if everyone in the room knows this story, but it's a pretty good one. You see, Annie and I met at a wedding. Except at the time, I was Katniss's fake date, and Annie was Peeta's _also_ fake date. Because back then, the two of them were too dumb to ask the other out on a date of their own. But luckily for me, about halfway through the reception, they went off to fight or make out or whatever it was they disappeared to do. And it gave me the chance to talk with my future wife. So," Finnick says, his white-toothed grin growing as he tips his glass to us, "thank you both for being terrible dates. I'd say we owe you one, but it looks like you finally figured things out on your own."

Finnick's green eyes meet mine, and even though I'm blushing furiously, I raise my glass and tip mine towards him too. And then I clink my glass against Peeta's as everyone drinks to us and the fact that we, however unconventionally, got the ball rolling for the couple we're really celebrating today.

A little while later, after the plates are cleared and Finnick and Annie have cut the cake, and the band's begun to play, I'm standing with Prim toward the back of the room, waiting for her to finish filling out the guest book with her careful, neat writing.

"Let's go Everdeen, time to dance with me."

Peeta appears out of nowhere at my side, like he could sense the band would be playing the opening notes of _The Way You Look Tonight_ at this exact moment. He grins at the startled expression on my face, and I realize that's exactly what he's done—most likely requesting they play it himself.

This time, he at least waits for me to hand off my drink to Prim. And this time, I follow him willingly onto the dance floor.

"So, is this our song or something?" I ask, falling into a comfortable rhythm as he moves me in small circles. His steps are just as surefooted as I remember them being a year ago, and they're easy to follow.

"I don't know, the last time we danced to this song, you almost murdered me."

I snort. "Sounds like it should definitely be our song then."

"Come here," Peeta laughs, shaking his head and pulling me closer so that our rib cages are touching, hovering his mouth over my ear. "I need to tell you something."

"What?" I ask, pulling back to look at him. "That there's someone standing behind me that you're trying to make jealous?"

His lips quirk, but he shakes his head at me. And then, catching me just enough off guard, Peeta spins me out, and then back in to him, grinning at my surprised expression and clumsy steps just before dipping me over his knee and kissing me.

"Nah," Peeta says, tugging me gently to bring me right side up again, the shining glint to his crystal blue eyes still making my heart race even after hundreds of looks just like this one. "It's still just about wanting to kiss you." He slips his hands back around my waist, and as I rest my arms around his neck, he smiles. "It's not my fault if doing so makes everyone else jealous."

I shake my head, giving him my best _you may be cute, but you're also ridiculous_ look. "Shut up."

Unfazed, Peeta turns me smoothly to the pace of the song, and his eyebrow perks. "Make me."

I laugh, but he doesn't have to ask twice before I lean in to kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You all have been incredible with your response to this story. I sincerely thank you for reading, and for taking the time to comment or review or to come find me on tumblr (@hashtagpeeta). That being said, that's (almost) all folks. (Epilogue coming soon.) I hope you've enjoyed reading even a sliver as much as I've enjoyed writing. :) Please don't be afraid to talk to me, I promise I'd love to hear from you._


	8. Epilogue

I credit Peeta's charmed luck for the weather today. It's 73 degrees and the sun is shining—a perfect day for a wedding. And everything has gone smoothly so far, though I have Prim and her attention to detail to thank for that. She's taken care of practically everything, from dealing with calls from vendors and the museum's coordinator with last minute questions, to making sure my mother is comfortable in her hotel room. And she's earning the wedding planner of the year award all while calling Thom's parents every 25 minutes to check on Lucy, who's staying with them for the weekend. Peeta and I had been more than willing to let her attend our big day, but Prim had insisted that weddings were no place for an almost one-year-old. Neither of us bothered to argue with her over it—while we may be the ones getting married, Prim's basically running this show.

Which is completely fine by me. Peeta and I planned our own wedding, of course—we're the ones who chose Panem's art museum atrium as our venue, and we're the ones who were determined to keep our guest list small. We made the big decisions together, choosing the food and the band, and the cake—which Peeta was weirdly picky about, resulting in no less than five different tastings. But now that the big day's here and it's coming down to the minute details, it's definitely nice to have a younger sister who likes worrying about those things.

Although her nervous energy is starting to get to me by the time our make up and hair is done and I can hear her giving orders to who I think is the florist in the corner of the hotel suite we're occupying. I glance around the room, past my mother who's sitting quietly on the end of the bed, eying the table with the bottles of champagne and flutes set out for us by hotel management. I'm seriously considering popping open a fresh bottle when there's a knock at the door.

I make a move toward it, but I can't even get up out of my chair before Prim waves me off, quickly telling whoever she's on the phone with that she'll have to call them back. She murmurs something about it probably being the make up artist—who Prim had insisted we hire—returning for something she may have left behind, since she just left a few minutes ago. I shrug, letting Prim do her thing and answer the door while I sip from my champagne glass carefully in order to disturb my lipstick as little as possible, just like Venia, the make up artist had told me to do. I watch Prim open the door, furrowing my brow when she slips out into the hallway, closing it quickly behind her.

My guess is our visitor isn't Venia.

And my guess is confirmed when a minute later, Prim makes her way back into the room shaking her head with tight lines of disapproval showing on her face. I hold up my hand to her before she can say anything.

"Prim. It's okay. Let me see him."

"Katniss," she hisses at me, "It's bad luck!"

"Prim," I say more firmly now, unable to hide my annoyance. "Will you stop acting like your name and let me talk to him?"

"Girls," my mother's voice says quietly but sternly from her station on the bed, catching both Prim and I by surprise. We turn to her, and her interruption effectively ends our bickering. My mother sighs, looking at us like we're teenagers arguing over the remote control before pushing herself up from her seat. "Why don't we step outside for a minute?" she tells Prim. "I could use some fresh air anyway."

Prim huffs and shakes her head disapprovingly, but ultimately she acquiesces, following my mother toward the door. "Five minutes," she warns me over her shoulder. I roll my eyes, but smile appreciatively at her.

"Thank you."

I don't know if I was expecting him to show up or not, but I can't say that I'm surprised that he did. And when he enters the room, I actually laugh. His hair's combed neatly to the side, he looks freshly shaved, and he's already dressed in his black tuxedo, although he's not wearing his jacket yet. And his bow tie is still untied, hanging from his neck.

"Hi," he says, sort of breathless and with a crooked, knowing grin. "Your sister's pretty pissed at me. She tried to tie it three times herself."

"Come here," I say, still laughing softly as I stand and wrap my short silk robe—a sweet gift from Annie for the big day—around me.

"You're insanely beautiful," Peeta says, stepping in front of me with a look in his eye that, even today, makes me blush.

I shake my head, tucking a strand of hair left free from my loosely done up do behind my ear. "You're pretty handsome there yourself."

Peeta grins as I smooth the collar of his dress shirt before reaching for the black satin ribbon around his neck. "Do you remember how to do this?"

"Sort of," I reply, frowning in concentration as I try to recall the complicated steps of tying a bow tie, fiddling absently with the fabric between my fingers. "At least, I think I'll be able to figure it out." I get to work folding one end over the other, and I notice Peeta's eyes scanning the room behind me before settling on the table next to us. Or more specifically, the champagne glass with my lipstick on it set atop of the table. He raises his eyebrow at me.

I only look up long enough to smirk before returning my attention to his neck. "Want a drink?" I offer.

Peeta shakes his head until I have to shoot him another look as a warning to stay still. "Drinking all your troubles away?"

"Yes. Marrying you is going to be terrible."

I try to loop the material around itself, but it ends up not looking right, and I drop the ribbon in frustration, letting it hang lamely and putting my hands on my hips.

Peeta laughs. "See, not so easy, is it?"

"You probably should have just let Prim tie it for you," I sigh, blowing air between my lips.

"Ah, but where's the romance in that?"

"I don't know, but would it have killed you to cheat with a clip on?"

Peeta laughs again, and then there are a few beats of silence as I attempt to start over. I'm half way to a decent end product when he interrupts my focus. "I wanted to marry you the last time you did this, you know."

"Yeah, well, just like the last time I did this, I want you to be quiet and stay still," I mutter. Though my heart still skips a beat at his declaration.

Peeta feigns hurt. "You don't believe me?"

I shake my head. "You're so full of it."

"I'm not kidding, Katniss. You showed up at my door, and I couldn't believe my luck."

"Me neither," I crack. It's hard to tell when he's being serious sometimes, and it's really hard for me to believe he wanted to marry the girl who tied his last bow tie, if only because she thought she hated him so much. But looking back now, I guess it's not that hard to believe that the two people who bickered their way into kissing at my sister's wedding are the same two people getting married today. Sometimes it feels kind of inevitable, actually. "But I think it might have changed since then."

His crooked grin reappears as I finish tying him up, tugging at the completed bow with satisfaction and patting his chest for good measure.

"Are you ready for this?" he asks, turning to appraise my work in the mirror.

I am. I'm a little bit nervous, and a little bit scared, but I'm ready. I didn't think I'd ever be the girl with the perfect wedding and the ridiculously perfect husband, and definitely not the girl with the happy ending, but here I am anyway.

And _here_ is good. It's better than good. Even if _here_ is also unchartered territory that's sometimes scary. Well, Peeta's not scary—he's my rock, my teammate.

And we're going to tackle the scary things together.

I nod my response and reach for my champagne glass, sipping from it nonchalantly as he perks another eyebrow at me into the mirror.

I raise my own eyebrow right back at him. "You know this is cider, right?"

Prim's pregnant again. She's barely three months along and she just started sharing the good news publicly last week. So when she'd popped the bottle of sparkling cider before opening the bottle of champagne, I'd requested a glass of it myself, proclaiming my nerves were kicking in and that I thought alcohol in my system wouldn't help them. And she gave me this look, a look that only sisters can share. But she kept her mouth shut and poured two sparkling ciders, no questions asked. Though she couldn't contain her shit-eating grin.

"I didn't say anything," he says with a chuckle, putting his hands up in defense as he turns back around to face me.

Neither of us are saying anything, not officially. It's too new. And it's also a little taboo. Everyone will figure it out eventually—that we put the carriage before the horse, or well, the baby before the marriage—I'm sure. But not today. Today is just about us.

Peeta absently straightens the cuff of his dress shirt, seeming satisfied with the way I tied his tie, and his eyes sparkle as they catch mine. "So, I look okay, right?"

He looks better than okay. He knows this. "You're all right," I shrug, but I smile when he smiles.

"Perfect," he says, crossing the few steps between us, kissing me lightly on the lips. "So, I really get to marry you, huh?" he breathes afterwards.

"If I ever make it down the aisle, yes," I laugh.

Peeta checks his watch, making a face when he realizes the time. "I should go. Prim's going to kill me." She really might, too. Marrying and impregnating her sister will only get him so far if he messes with the very strict schedule she set for the day.

"I do need to get dressed," I agree, although I let him procrastinate by kissing me again.

"What, you're not wearing that?' he jokes against my lips.

"Go," I order, pushing him away with a laugh and a finger point toward the door.

"Okay," he says with a grin and one last quick kiss to my forehead before obeying. I watch him leave, making it all the way out to the hallway before he stops.

"Hey," Peeta calls out, popping his head back into the room from around the other side of the door. "I love you."

Just one look at the adorable, handsome, and annoyingly charming man, who—however improbably—will be my husband in less than two hours makes my next words come more easily than any I've ever said.

"I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I have loved writing this story, so so much, and I love each and every one of you who's taken the time to read. Thank you. Please don't be a stranger and let me know what you think. And come play on tumblr too! I'm @ hashtagpeeta._


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